The Victims
by Enthusiastic Fish
Summary: Tim-centric long story. Also contains the rest of the team, plus various tertiary characters. Deals with intense themes. Tim faces danger from all sides and has to deal with it. Now complete. Thanks for reading!
1. Prologue

**A/N: **This is another very long story. It is, as usual, focusing on Tim. It is rated T for an in-depth look at the subject of suicide and psychological trauma. It also contains the occurrence of multiple homicides. I have made every effort to address these serious topics both realistically and with respect. It is not my intention to be insulting. I hope you will enjoy it and if you feel I have done anything either inaccurately or callously, please let me know.

**Disclaimer:** I own nothing of the NCIS franchise, either characters or setting. Quotations are referenced when they come up. I do not claim them.

* * *

**The Victim(s)**

**Prologue**

_Present..._

Tim opened the door to his apartment and slowly stepped inside. He was exhausted, thin and stretched. This day felt like it had lasted years, that body in his parking space, Gibbs, the look of betrayal on the faces of the team. So many people had died in the last month. So many...and they were no closer to finding the killer than they had been on the day that Petty Officer Johnson had given the warning.

How much of that lack of progress was his own fault, Tim didn't know. He'd be lucky to still have his job when this was over...after all he'd done...and not done. Guilt warred with his exhaustion, each feeling battling for supremacy. Gibbs hadn't even slapped him. That was the worst thing. Tim knew that the Gibbs' slaps were teaching tools. The fact that Gibbs had foregone the slap when Tim had admitted to tampering with evidence pretty much proved that he had crossed that invisible line.

He looked around his apartment. It seemed almost like it belonged to a stranger. What had happened to Timothy McGee, the by-the-rules agent? Where had he disappeared to? Tim thought about what was left. There wasn't much...except the guilt. He felt the guilt so acutely it was amazing that he had managed to hide what he'd done for as long as he had. He may as well be an out and out criminal after this. He hadn't meant for this to turn out the way it had. There had been no planned crime, no intention of alienating everyone at NCIS. No one was supposed to get hurt...

He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost missed it when the voice started speaking.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

"_Horror has a face... and you must make a friend of horror."_

_29 days earlier..._

"Hey, Angie, you're gonna be late. It's the brig for you, my friend," Louise said jokingly as the friends walked out of the movie theater.

"No way. I can run like a cheetah, didn't you know that?" Angie replied. "And _you'd_ better run because I think I see your bus coming down the street."

Louise looked and, sure enough, the bus was on its way. "Great! Well, let me know when your next shore leave is. We don't get together much anymore."

"I know, but we're shipping out in two days; so I probably won't see you for a couple of months."

Louise got a little teary and gave her friend a tight hug. "Be safe. Don't fall off the boat!"

Angie smiled. "I won't. Get going! Otherwise, you'll have to pay for a taxi." She gave Louise a friendly shove toward the stop.

"Bye, Ang!"

"Toodles!" Angie waited until Louise got on her bus and then headed down the street. She always walked because two-month tours on a carrier didn't give her as much open space as she'd prefer. Well, actually there was a _lot_ of open space; it just wasn't accessible. She was well used to taking care of herself and didn't even glance down the alley as she passed it. Thus, she was completely taken by surprise when a hand grabbed her arm in a grip like a vise and pulled her into the alley. She tried to scream, but his other hand was over her mouth. Angie struggled against the restraining hands, but before she could make a move, the man turned her around and slammed her hard against the wall.

Then, a menacing voice whispered, "If you don't fight, you'll live. If you do fight, I'll kill you and use someone else."

Angie pushed against the man once more and felt a knife gently caress her throat and she was aware of thin stream of blood running down her neck. She tensed, but stopped struggling.

"Good job, petty officer. I figured you were smarter than average." His hand loosened from covering her mouth.

"What do you want from me?" she asked.

"You're going to relay a message to NCIS for me."

"A message?"

"Yes. You need to report it to Special Agent Gibbs."

Angie inwardly sighed with relief. If he wanted her to relay a message, then he wouldn't kill her. "What's the message?"

She couldn't see his face, but she could tell he was smiling. "First things first, Petty Officer. We'll take it slow. Who are you reporting to?"

"Special Agent Gibbs at NCIS."

"Good. Now, here is the message. You have to say it _exactly_; don't miss anything."

"Okay."

"The message is, 28 days...6 hours... 42 minutes... 12 seconds. That... is when the world... will end. Now, repeat it."

"Twenty-eight days... um, six hours... forty minutes..."

She was cut off by the knife tightening against her throat. "No. Again, it is: 28 days... 6 hours... 42 minutes... 12 seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

Angie swallowed, her heart racing. She repeated, "Twenty-eight days... six hours... forty-two minutes... um..." The knife tightened again and her mind raced. "...twelve seconds. That's when the world will end."

"No. You must say it _exactly_ as I say it. 28 days... 6 hours... 42 minutes... 12 seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

Angie tried again. "Twenty-eight days... six hours... forty-two minutes... twelve seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

She felt a hot breath on the back of her neck and the man whispered, "Good. Say it again."

"Twenty-eight days... six hours... forty-two minutes... twelve seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

"Again."

"Twenty-eight days... six hours... forty-two minutes... twelve seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

"Good." The man pushed Angie's face into the wall. "Don't forget. Who are you going to tell?"

"Special Agent... Gibbs at NCIS."

"What are you going to tell him?"

"Twenty-eight days... six hours... forty-two minutes... twelve seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

"Stay where you are and count to twenty...slowly. Don't move until then. Understand?"

"Yes."

Angie stayed motionless as the knife disappeared from her neck. She started counting. The blood was still running down her neck, but she didn't dare wipe it away. She didn't dare do anything except count and feel the grimy bricks against her cheek.

"Seventeen... eighteen... nineteen..." The closer she got to twenty, the more frightened and weak she felt. "...twenty..." She felt the tears start and tried to stop them. She wasn't some wussy little girl. She was a Petty Officer in the U.S. Navy. That didn't seem to matter right now. Finally, she moved and turned around. No one was there. Weeping openly now, she staggered out of the alley and into the street. She pulled off her jacket and pressed it to her neck as she began walking down the street.

For a little while, she just walked in a daze, but then, she saw the lights of a taxi. Angie flagged it down.

"Take me to the nearest hospital, please."

"Are you alright, ma'am?"

"Just go," Angie whispered. She'd call her CO in the morning and go to NCIS, wherever it was. All she wanted was to forget the last ten minutes had ever happened.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

_28 days earlier..._

"Wait! Hold the elevator, please!"

Tim obligingly put his hand between the doors to stop them from closing. He watched with a trace of amusement as a young woman ran for the elevator. She was dressed in a Navy uniform, but she couldn't have been much older than Tim himself was.

"What floor?" he asked politely.

She glanced at the lit number. "That's where I'm going."

He suddenly noticed that she had a bandage going across her neck and looked away. The last thing he wanted to do was make her uncomfortable by his scrutiny. They were both silent as the elevator climbed.

"Do you work here?" she asked.

"Yes," Tim answered; he turned his head and studiously kept his gaze on her face, not her neck.

"Do you know a Special Agent Gibbs?"

"Yes. He's my boss."

"Good. You can point him out for me," she said. Tim could see that in spite of her even tone, she was a little frightened.

"Yes, I can do that."

They both lapsed into silence again. When the elevator doors finally opened, the two stepped out and Tim pointed unerringly in the direction of Gibbs' desk. "That's him over there."

"Thank you."

Tim went to his own desk and sighed as he pulled up a very familiar case file. Angie walked up to Gibbs and stood silently until he looked up. "Who are you?"

"Petty Officer Angeline Johnson, sir."

"Can I help you?" he asked with a trace of impatience.

"Perhaps. I'm supposed to give you a message, Special Agent Gibbs."

"A message from whom?"

Gibbs could see that she was steeling herself to answer him. "A man attacked me last night and pulled me into an alley. He made me memorize a message which he said had to be given only to you here at NCIS."

"What's the message, Petty Officer?"

"Twenty-eight days... six hours... forty-two minutes... twelve seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

Gibbs noticed Tim look over and stare when she spoke, but he didn't say anything at the time. Tony and Ziva were both listening with half an ear, but only Tim was actually interested.

"Who was this man?"

"I don't know, sir. He took me from behind and I was facing the wall the entire time. He spoke in a whisper and I don't think I'd even recognize his voice again."

"Did he say anything else?"

"Only that if I didn't struggle, he'd let me live."

"He didn't explain the message?"

"No. Not at all. He just made me memorize it and repeat it until I said it exactly like he did."

"Nothing else?"

"No, sir."

"Did he do that to you?" Gibbs asked, gesturing at her neck.

"Yes, sir. I had to file a police report when I went to the hospital; you can read my statement. I have to report back to the USS Mitscher by 1000. We ship out tomorrow."

"Thank you, Petty Officer. One more question: what time did he attack you?"

"What time? It was just after 0030 hours, sir. Do you have any other questions, sir?"

"No, Petty Officer. Thank you."

"I wish I could help you more, sir. I don't know what he wanted, but I know that I'd like to see him arrested."

"We'll do our best."

"Thank you, sir." Angie nodded at Gibbs and walked to the elevators without a backward glance.

After the doors had closed, Gibbs looked over at Tim. "What, McGee?"

"Boss?"

"I saw you look up when she gave the message. What?"

Tim looked a little embarrassed. "Well, Boss, I recognized what she said. It's a line from a movie."

"Oh? I thought that was DiNozzo's territory."

Tony glanced up and said, "_I_ didn't recognize it. It must be from a musical or something like that."

Tim smirked. "No, Tony. It's not from a musical. It's from _Donnie Darko_."

"It's from what?" Gibbs asked.

"_Donnie Darko_. It's a movie about a kid who has an invisible friend named Frank, a guy dressed up as an evil rabbit, who tells him to do evil things and says," at this point, Tim dropped his voice to a creepy almost-whisper, "twenty-eight days...six hours... forty-two minutes... twelve seconds. That... is when the world... will end."

"When did you watch that movie, Probie?"

"A few years ago. It's not a popular one."

"I'll say. I've never heard of it."

Ziva interjected. "Wow, a movie Tony has _not _seen. I _am_ shocked."

"What happens in the movie, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

"Oh, um. Donnie Darko, a high school kid in the 80s, was saved from being killed by a faulty jet engine landing in his bedroom because Frank called to him and made him sleepwalk to a golf course. That's when he says the world will end. Throughout the movie, Donnie is forced to commit crimes which end up revealing other crimes, has to see his girlfriend die and ends up killing Frank by shooting him in the eye on Halloween night. Then, he realizes that if he goes back in time, stays in his bed and lets the engine kill him, he would seal up the rip in the fabric of reality, save his girlfriend, and keep his mother and sister from being killed in a plane crash."

Everyone stared at Tim. Finally, Gibbs broke the silence. "This is a movie, is it?"

"Um, yes, Boss. It's really quite good, if a bit disturbing."

"So why would someone tell Petty Officer Johnson to repeat a line from a movie about a killer rabbit?"

"I have no idea, Boss. It's a cult classic, but I don't know why he'd assault someone just to make her learn a line from it..." he paused as he considered, "...unless..."

"...unless he means it," Tony finished. "Unless he means that in about a month he's going to do something that will bring an end to the world. He sounds like a kook, Boss."

Gibbs looked back and forth between Tony and Tim for about five seconds and then said, "McGee, get her police report and see if you can find anything useful. Otherwise, we have plenty to do without worrying about the world ending."

"Yes, Boss." Tim closed whatever file he'd been perusing and got to work.

"Hey, Probie, what were you working on?" Tony asked.

"Nothing, Tony," Tim answered, barely paying attention as he accessed the police report and Petty Officer Johnson's service record.

"Nothing? You looked pretty intense there."

"Nothing, Tony." Tim looked up and glared at him. "I have work to do."

"So, do you, DiNozzo. I still don't have your report from the Landorn case."

"Yes, you do. I sent it in this morning."

"And I sent it back."

"Oh." Tony looked at the file on his desk. "I'll get right on that, Boss."


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

Every person working in law enforcement, no matter whether they are at the local, state, or federal level, has a case that gets to them. A case that was never solved. A case, a criminal, a victim, a survivor, that just gets under their skin. Usually, this case gets put in the cold case files and is nearly forgotten by everyone else. It is the investigator who remembers the one that got away, who remembers the pain reflected in the eyes of family members, or the accusing looks that arise when the criminal can't be found. That investigator never lets go. Spare moments are devoted to perhaps finding that one piece of evidence that will break the case, that will explain the unexplainable, that will open the gates to that ineffable visitor known as justice...

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"Well, McGee? What do you have?" Gibbs asked a few hours later.

"Not much, Boss. Petty Officer Johnson has a good record. She's been in the Navy for three years, just achieved the rank of Fire Control Technician First Class, moved up quickly. No sign of any psychological or social problems. The police report was thorough... and thoroughly useless as far as catching the guy. No witnesses, no evidence. The knife wasn't distinctive in any way. The only thing we have is the fact that he was so insistent on her accuracy in quoting a movie line." Tim looked up from his notes. "This guy _could_ just be some nut, but whatever he has in mind as the end of the world, I think he means it."

"Do you have any ideas on how to get more information?"

Reluctantly, Tim shook his head. "Unless he does something else..."

"Right. Well..." Gibbs paused as he got a glimpse of a photo sticking out from the file below Tim's notes on the assault. "McGee, what is that?"

"What?" Tim followed Gibbs' glance. "Oh." He flushed. "Nothing, Boss."

"McGee, how long have you had that out of the cold case files?" Tony and Ziva looked up at his words.

"Um, well... Boss." Tim looked as though he really didn't want to answer, but he met Gibbs' gaze almost defiantly. "It never went there."

"McGee..." Gibbs sounded more resigned than angry.

"What's going on?" Tony asked.

"What case is that, McGee?" Ziva chimed in.

Feeling the questioning gazes from the whole team, Tim forced himself to shrug with feigned nonchalance. "It's from a... an old case that I worked on a couple of years ago."

"A couple of _years_? Probie, that's a long time to be holding onto a case file. Which case?"

"It's the Smith case."

"Smith? You've got to be kidding. Which one is that?"

"You don't remember? You worked on it with me... you and Ziva both did."

"I did?" Tony asked. "Refresh my memory."

"Joan Smith, living at Norfolk. She reported that she was being stalked, requested protection."

"Was she?"

"Apparently. She was killed about a week after she filed her report." Tim kept his words and tone even.

"Oh. Who was lead on it?"

"Me," Tim admitted.

"Oh." Tony injected a wealth of feeling into that single syllable. "So, uh, how did it end?"

"It hasn't ended. Her husband came back from Afghanistan..."

"Please tell me his name isn't John." At Gibbs' glare, he subsided. "Sorry."

"It's not. It's Robert. He came back, stayed for about a month, during the investigation, the funeral. When the trail went cold, he went AWOL. No one has seen or heard from him since."

"For two years?"

"Not quite two years. It will be exactly two years in a few weeks," Tim corrected.

"McGee..." Gibbs began again.

Tim, uncharacteristically, cut him off. It was a sign of his desperation, and Gibbs couldn't bring himself to be angry at him for it. "Boss, have you even _noticed_ until now that I've been keeping an eye on this case?"

"No," he agreed.

"I'm _not_ obsessing."

Tony snorted.

Tim turned to him in annoyance. "I'm _not_. I only work on it when there's extra time. Just because _you_ use that time to goof off, doesn't mean that it's required of all of us, Tony!"

Everyone was silent in surprise. It wasn't that Tim was frustrated with Tony's ribbing. That happened all the time. It was expected. No, it was the edge in his voice that said very clearly, _Leave me alone... or else!_, that had everyone taken aback. That edge was not a common addition to his voice.

"Have you found anything new, McGee?" Ziva asked into the awkward pause.

Tim sighed. "No. The case is pretty much as cold now as it was two years ago."

"Then... why?"

"Because it's important." Tim didn't bother to elaborate. Instead, he looked back at Gibbs. "Do you want me to keep looking into this, Boss?" he asked, indicating his notes on Angeline Johnson.

Gibbs considered. This could be, as Tim had noted, a dangerous man with an intention to destroy, if not the world, at least a chunk of it. It could also be, as Tony noted, a kook, just like those people who stand on street corners and say that the end of the world is coming. At the very best, this man had shown enough disregard for human life to be willing to kill just to get a movie line quoted. At worst, he was taunting them with the fact that he didn't think they could stop him from destroying the world.

"Okay, McGee, see what more you can find. I can't ignore the fact that this could be genuine. Tony, Ziva..."

"Check with Abby to see about DNA results on the Collingsworth case, yes, Boss," Tony said and sped toward the elevator.

"Finish interviewing witnesses in the assault and review the evidence," Ziva rattled off.

Gibbs smiled at the speed at which his team anticipated his orders. It was rather nice in a way.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

_27 days earlier..._

The next morning, Tony snuck into NCIS early, but forgot about Ziva's penchant for arriving early as well.

"Tony, what do you think you are doing?"

"Quiet, Ziva!" Tony said from his position at Tim's computer.

"Tony, why are you snooping at McGee's computer?"

"I'm not _snooping_, Ziva. This is for his own good," Tony clarified. "Ah-ha! McGee needs to change his password."

"What is for his own good?" Ziva came and leaned over Tony's shoulder as he began opening various files. "He is not going to be happy with you looking through his stuff, you know."

"I'm just helping him out. McGee's obsessed."

"He is not, Tony," Ziva said, rolling her eyes. "You heard him. No one even _knew_ that he was looking at the file still. _Gibbs_ did not know."

"There are many types of obsession. Probie _lied_ to us. That means he's obsessing."

"You know, Tony, just because _you_ lied to us does not mean that McGee is the same," Ziva commented, still watching Tony's search. "Are you sure you do not just _want_ there to be something wrong?"

"I didn't lie. I was undercover, but thanks for that, Dr. Phil," Tony muttered. "If you don't want to know, then you're free to leave. Ah-ha! There it is. It has its own _folder_."

"This is McGee," Ziva pointed out. "He is organized as a rule."

"True." Tony opened the folder and found about ten different subfolders, all carefully titled and dated.

Ziva abandoned any pretense of disinterest. "Look at that. Some of these have been updated as recently as last week!"

"See? I told you, obsessed. He updated in the interviews two weeks ago! Is he still actually conducting interviews?" Tony clicked on the folder and opened another window.

"That still does not mean he is obsessed... I wonder what the correspondence is," she said.

"Let's see." Tony double-clicked on the file entitled _Correspondence – update 3 Nov._ Unfortunately, he didn't get a chance to see a thing.

"Tony? Ziva? What are you doing at my computer?" Tim was standing at the elevator and approaching at a fast pace. Tony began to quickly close the windows he'd opened, but in his search, he'd managed to open about ten different windows and Tim was at his desk before he could finish. "What do you think you're _doing_? For heaven's sake, Tony! This is _my_ computer! Can't you respect _anything_? Do you have _no_ boundaries at _all_?" Tim leaned over Tony who was still sitting at the desk and closed the rest of the windows; then, he pushed a few keys and locked down his computer.

"Technically speaking, Probie, this computer belongs to the U.S. Navy and the files you have are fair game to other special agents," Tony said jokingly, trying to lighten Tim's dark mood.

It didn't work. "If you want to know about the Smith case, Tony, you can look it up yourself. You don't need to invade my personal files to find it. And I don't think that this is anything you're really interested in anyway."

"Yes it..."

Tim cut him off, his eyes blazing. "No, you're not. The only reason you're looking at this is because you can't _stand_ to be out of the loop. You can't bear the thought of someone not wanting you to intrude. You don't care about the case. You didn't even _remember_ it!" Tim stopped and took a deep breath, calming himself down. "In the future, kindly refrain from invading my privacy. Do you think you can manage that, DiNozzo?" Without waiting for an answer, Tim turned around and stalked across the bullpen and down the hall.

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Silence dominated the bullpen for a few minutes after Tim's departure.

"Whoa. What's with McGee, lately?" Tony said, actually a little in awe at the display of temper.

"I told you he would not be happy," Ziva said. "But, I think you are right after all. That kind of response indicates some sort of obsession."

Tony chuckled. "Can you hear yourself, Ziva? You sound like a daytime talk show host."

"I am just stating a fact, Tony."

"A fact about what?" Gibbs asked as he entered.

"Nothing, Boss."

"What are you two doing and where's McGee?" Gibbs asked, eyeing the two agents standing guiltily at Tim's desk.

"He's... that way, Boss. And we were just... uh... helping him clean out his files," Tony lied badly.

Gibbs crossed the bullpen. "Does he need your help, DiNozzo?"

"Not now," Tony said and smiled weakly.

Gibbs head-slapped him and barked, "Get to work or clean out your _desk_, DiNozzo. You too, David!"

"I'm just going to..." Tony pointed down the hall toward the restrooms and escaped Gibbs' death glare.

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Tim threw open the door to the men's room and noted with relief that no one was inside. He really didn't want to talk to anyone right now. He took a deep breath and walked to the sink. Resting his hands on the countertop, he looked at himself in the mirror and was annoyed to see that he looked a bit...obsessed. He shook his head and turned on the cold water full blast. Then, his head sunk down to the faucet, feeling the mist rising from the sink and the cool metal against his cheek. The noise from the water rushing by his ear filled his brain with pleasant noise, slowing down his angry thoughts and helping him think a little more clearly.

Why was it that Tony always felt he had the right to do whatever he wanted? Tim knew that Tony couldn't care less about that case. Even during the case, he had only cracked jokes. One of them had backfired because Joan Smith's husband had come into the house while he was comparing the state of her body to what almost happened to Michelle Pfeiffer in _What Lies Beneath_. Tim couldn't believe that Tony didn't remember the look on his face, but once the team moved on, so did he. So did Tim, usually. It just wasn't enough to hope vaguely that something would come up later. There needed to be someone on the case. Tim got angry again when he thought of Tony and Ziva searching through that folder. Where did they get off? What if they had seen...? _No, they didn't. If they had they would have asked_, Tim reassured himself. A small part of him said that they deserved to know. _No, they don't. It's not like I'm keeping it a secret. I've reported it... just because no one has _cared_ enough to read my reports doesn't mean that I'm hiding anything._ Not telling things like this made him feel guilty though.

"McGee? You sick?" Tony's voice made Tim jerk back up into an upright position. He smothered the complete embarrassment he felt what at Tony had just seen by allowing his anger to take over again.

"No, Tony. I'm not sick. Thanks." Tim turned off the water and grabbed a couple of paper towels to dry off his hands and his face which was damp from the mist of the water rushing out of the tap.

"Hey, McGee..." Tony began, sounding almost conciliatory.

Tim rounded on him angrily. "Tony, I'm _really_ not interested in hearing another joke from you about my current state of mind."

"I wasn't going..."

Tim interrupted. "I'm _also_ not interested in you showing a bit of empathy for once in your life and saying you know how I feel. I'm not interested in whatever past experience you might have had that somehow has some bearing on whatever it is that your puerile brain has decided is wrong with me. I'm not interested in hearing about your personal obsessions. I am an NCIS special agent and I have the right and the _duty_ to solve crimes involving the Navy. If I choose to continue to show interest in a case, no matter how old, it is no business of yours! What I do on my own time is my own business and you can just butt out!" Tim stormed by him.

"McGee..."

"Just leave me alone, DiNozzo. Do you think you can handle that? I know it's difficult; you haven't ever left me alone before, not once in four years, but try. For once in your life, show me a little bit of respect, okay? Back off and _leave me alone_." Again, not giving him a chance to respond, Tim left the men's room, slightly ashamed of what he had just said, but just as angry as when he had gone inside... which essentially defeated the purpose of entering in the first place.

"McGee!" Gibbs said sternly as he re-entered the bullpen.

Tim quickly schooled his expression and tamped down his previous fury. "Yes, Boss?"

He must not have completely succeeded because Gibbs actually gave him a second glance. "Let's go."

"Where, Boss?"

"Petty Officer Johnson's CO reported her AWOL this morning."

Tim stopped, his anger at Tony forgotten. "What?"

"Petty Officer Johnson has gone missing."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

"When was the Petty Officer supposed to have reported in?" Tim asked, ignoring the small protests his stomach was making at being on a boat. As they questioned Angie's CO, he couldn't help but think of what he had told Gibbs just the day before... _unless something else happened_...

"Yesterday afternoon, 1300 hours. I gave her extended leave in order to make her report. When she didn't show up, I got worried," Chief Ricks said.

"She hasn't even been UA for 24 hours. Why the rush?" Gibbs asked.

"For one, we're shipping out today, but Johnson has never once been late to report in. Even after her attack, she still called to explain why she missed the deadline. And with what happened... it just seemed like a good idea to not take any chances."

"Who does she visit during shore leave? Friends? Family?"

"She's has a large family out West, but here..." he thought about it. "...she has a friend... Louise or something like that. I'm her CO, not her confidant, Agent Gibbs."

"Who _is_ her confidant here?"

"She and Petty Officer Michaelson are quartered together. Michaelson is off duty. You can probably find her in the mess."

"Thank you, Chief. We'll find her," Tim said, as they stood up to leave.

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Petty Officer Michaelson was surprised to be questioned. "We're just bunkmates. We don't talk much."

"Do you know who she talked to on shore leave?"

"Yeah, that would be Louise Hansen. They've been friends for awhile. There are pictures of them in our quarters. I can show you if you like."

"Thank you."

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Tim and Gibbs left the ship in silence. Tim relished the return to dry land, but was bothered by the whole case.

"What do you think, Boss?"

"I don't believe in coincidences, McGee," Gibbs said shortly.

"No..." Tim agreed softly.

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Angie opened her eyes warily. The last few hours were a blur in her memory. She didn't know where she was or how she got there. It was dark, but not unbearably so, and gradually her eyes adjusted. She moved an arm and was startled to feel a chain tethering her to the wall. In fact, she moved her other arm and felt the same sensation. The bile rose in her throat at the sight that greeted her eyes. The wall was madness, complete insanity coded and catalogued for the whole world to see. It was awful, not least because there were two pictures of her there. There were twelve photos in all, each one with a number. The first photo, of her, had a red 'X' through it. The second photo was also of her. She couldn't see what was written beneath it. The light was too dim. Suddenly, the door, which she hadn't noticed before, opened. A man, at least she assumed it was a man, came inside. He filled her with an indescribable terror, perhaps because she knew that he was not here to save her. He was dressed all in a matte black, head to toe. Not a shred of his skin showed. Only his eyes stared at her, they were dark, lifeless, cruel eyes.

"You delivered my message?" he whispered.

Although she had told Gibbs that she wouldn't recognize his voice again, immediately, as much by the whisper as by the words, she knew who he was. She nodded mutely.

"Good. We have an appointment. It won't do to be late." He approached her, a cloth in his hand. Before she could do more than jerk against the chains, the rag was over her face and she was forced to breathe in the rank fumes. True darkness shrouded her vision and she sagged unconscious once more.

----------------------------------------------------------------

"Abby, if you wanted to break into McGee's computer, how would you go about it?" Tony asked, bringing a Caf-Pow! bribe along with him as he entered the lab.

Abby didn't even look up from her microscope. "I wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"I'd just ask him, Tony. McGee likes me."

"What if he didn't want you to know?"

Still, Abby didn't look up. "I still wouldn't."

"Why not?"

"Because if McGee doesn't want _you_ to get into his computer, you won't be able to."

"Come on, Abs. You're as good as he is," Tony wheedled.

"Nearly as, but think about it, Tony." Finally, Abby turned away from her sample and looked at him. "When there's a computer problem in a case, McGee usually does it. Sure, I'm nearly as good as he is, but I don't have time to specialize in computers like he has. Besides, he knows every method of breaking a code. Don't you think he'd take steps to keep others from doing the same thing?"

"I guess."

"Why do you want to break into McGee's computer, Tony?" Abby asked.

"It was... just a hypothetical question," Tony hedged.

"Whatever, Tony. Why?"

"No reason."

Abby put her hands on her hips. "Tony..."

"Fine. I think McGee's hiding something from us, Abby."

"Us? Or you?"

"_Us_. Did _you_ know that he's been working on that Smith case from a couple years ago?"

"Which case?"

"Ha! I'm not the only one who forgot it. Apparently, McGee was lead on a murder case."

"Did you say Smith?"

"Yeah."

Comprehension dawned in Abby's eyes. "Oh, right. I remember that one. McGee was really annoyed when it was declared cold. He didn't want me to send the evidence to storage. Did you say that he's been working on it?"

"As recently as last week."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

"Huh..." Abby shrugged and turned back to her sample.

"That's all? Aren't you worried?"

Abby sighed and turned back. "Should I be?"

"Yeah. McGeek's been holding out on all of us. He's been keeping secrets and he nearly bit my head off when I looked at his files before."

"You already tried to look at his stuff, Tony?" Abby said incredulously.

"Why do you keep changing the subject. This isn't about me. This is about Probie getting obsessed with an unsolved case."

Abby rolled her eyes. "I really don't think so, Tony. Tim hasn't asked me to run any samples, nor has he tried to process anything on his own regarding that case. If he were obsessed, he would be doing that. Tim's very thorough."

"How do you know?"

Patiently, as if explaining a simple problem to a small child, Abby said, "Because if Tim wanted a case closed, if he were obsessed with it, he would make sure that every piece of evidence went through the correct channels. He would _not_ risk screwing things up by skimping on procedures, Tony. You're talking about the guy who can quote chapter and verse of all the rules and regs at NCIS."

"I know I'm right, Abby."

"Well, I can't help you, Tony, and I told you that I'm quitting caffeine."

Tony put the CafPow! by her computer. "You're obviously too calm if you aren't worried about this."

"Whatever, Tony." Again, Abby turned back to her equipment.

"I'm right, Abby. You'll see," Tony called as he left.

Alone with the caffeine, Abby glanced over at it, feeling the pull.

"No, I will resist!"

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Angie is missing? When? How?" Louise asked in shock.

"When did you last hear from her?" Gibbs asked.

"Uh...she called me after she left the hospital. Told me that she was okay, and she'd see me in a couple of months."

"Did you go to the hospital?"

"No. She told me not to. She just wanted to let me know what had happened and that it wasn't serious."

"Did she tell you anything about the attack?" Tim asked.

Louise looked back and forth between Gibbs and Tim. "No. She didn't. She just said that a guy had tried to mug her and she was going to be late reporting in."

"Why did she tell you?"

Louise blushed. "We've been friends forever. We just had these little rituals that we'd do at the same time when she had to ship out. It started when I started going to girls' camp in the summertime and she went on vacation with her family... but I guess you don't really need to know that," she finished lamely.

Tim smiled. "It's okay. Did she ever say anything about someone following her or did you notice anyone hanging around where you two were?"

Louise shook her head. "No. I didn't. Angie would never have told me if she had noticed. She's really independent, always wants to take care of things herself. Is there anything I can do?"

"If you hear from her or if you remember anything else, give us a call," Gibbs said, handing her a card.

"Of course. Just find her, please?"

"We will," Tim said firmly.


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

_26 days earlier..._

Tim came into NCIS the next day and checked his computer. Tony had been there, but he hadn't gotten in. Tim smiled sarcastically. It was nice to know he was so respected, so _cared_ for in this place. There was no way that _Tony_ would be able to break into his computer...now that he knew he wanted to. Tim sat down and began his morning routine, beginning with checking his NCIS email. As had become usual, there was a message for him. He opened it, read it, filed it with his others and meticulously filled out a report which he sent to the appropriate authorities.

Only then did he notice something else: There was a message from F. Harrison. The name wasn't at all familiar, but Tim clicked on the message anyway. It hadn't gone to junkmail which meant something in and of itself. There was a large attachment, a video. Tony came in. Tim ignored him and checked the video for viruses. It was clean. He clicked on it.

"It's too bad she won't live, but then who really does?" Tim stared at his computer screen in horror. Over and over, the lines repeated. "It's too bad she won't live, but then who really does?" "It's too bad she won't live..." "...too bad she won't live..." "...she won't live..." "...she won't live..."

All the while, the video looped to show Petty Officer Johnson restrained, shrieking in terror as a man, masked and shadowed, approached her.

"It's too bad she won't live, but then who really does?"

Closer and closer he came, slowly with no sense of hurry. His back was to the camera, but Angie's fear was there for the world...no for _Tim_ to see.

"It's too bad she won't live, but then, who really does?"

A garrotte fell free from one hand as the man stopped inches from her. When the inevitable moment came, Tim actually had to look away, but the sound of Angie's screams abruptly cutting off was almost worse than seeing it happen. He closed his eyes, but the vision the sounds conveyed made actual sight redundant.

"It's too bad she won't live..."

"...she won't live..."

As the video continued to play, Tim just kept his eyes closed and wished that it would stop. Something about seeing it happen made the whole thing much much worse and he couldn't think straight. He wasn't thinking like an agent. He was thinking like an inexperienced witness to a murder, a murder he had told people was not going to happen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tony glanced briefly at Tim as he came into the bullpen, but Tim steadfastly ignored him and Tony didn't say anything. Tim hadn't _actually_ ignored him over the last two days; they had had work to do, but he had made it patently obvious that he had no interest in speaking to Tony beyond the absolute essentials. However, when he heard the repeated lines of _Bladerunner_ coming from Tim's computer he glanced up again. The closing line repeated over and over, and Tony couldn't figure out why in the world he would want to listen to it. The movie was pretty good, but not _that_ good.

"Hey, Probie..." the teasing words faltered as he got a look at Tim's face, white with his eyes tightly closed. "McGee, what is it?"

Tim didn't answer, didn't even appear to hear him over the movie lines. Tony's brow furrowed in confusion as he stood and walked over to Tim's desk.

"Hey, McGee, I realize that you're mad at me still, but replaying _Bladerunner_ isn't going to change anything," Tony said, trying to rally. It didn't work. Tim still didn't respond. He reached his desk and looked over Tim's shoulder.

"It's too bad she won't live, but then, who really does?"

The video had looped again and Tony was treated to a vision of exactly what was making Tim close his eyes.

"McGee...isn't this that petty officer? The _Donnie Darko_ one?"

"Angeline Johnson," Tim finally said, his eyes still closed.

"Where is this, do you think?" Tony asked, looking at the video with calculated separation. He looked at Tim. "Hey! Probie!" He slapped his head. "Focus! Freaking out is not going to help find her." That seemed to wake Tim up from whatever had disturbed him so deeply. Tony didn't completely blame him because it was quite different to watch the murder taking place. Tim had seen something like that before, but he hadn't realized it was real. This time...there was little question of the reality. The real question was why the video had been sent to Tim. Why not Gibbs when Johnson had been sent to him in the first place?

Tim moved a shaking hand to the mouse and paused the video. He swallowed a few times and then looked at the surroundings. "O-Okay," he said, his voice as shaky as his hands, but at least he was engaging again. "There don't appear to be any defining features. I would say it's an apartment. The, uh, the killer seems to have chosen his clothing intentionally to block out any details of his build. The matte black makes him seem less defined."

"What's up?" Gibbs asked.

Tony looked at Tim who seemed to be nearly back to normal, although still pale. "It looks like Petty Officer Johnson is dead, Boss."

"What?" he strode over to the computer and looked at the video. "When did you get this, McGee?"

"About ten minutes ago, Boss. I was just checking my email. It was...just there."

"And?"

"And we're working on it, Boss," Tony said.

"I'm going to send it down to Abby and see if she can pull any details from it."

Gibbs just stared at Tim.

"And...I'm also going to see if I can track where the email was sent from. I'll get right on it, Boss," Tim said, trying to cover his shock. He wasn't sure exactly _why_ he was so shocked by what he saw. He had seen the results of much worse before. He'd even seen a murder in much the same way...only he hadn't known it at the time. _Maybe it's because I told no fewer than two people that we'd find her...implying that she'd live..._

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It only took two hours to track down the source of the video. As good as he knew Tim was with computer stuff, Tony was amazed at the way Tim seemed to interface with his machine, pulling things out of it that Tony would never have even thought of looking for. He was driven...maybe...Tony shut down that line of thought quickly. For the moment, there were more important things going on than his figuring out Tim's mental state, and also, Tim seemed to have forgotten his anger in the wake of trying to find the killer. Abby was able to isolate some information about the apartment in the same amount of time and together, they were able to track the apartment to a building in Anacostia.

Now that this was a genuine murder rather than a suspected kidnaping, the whole team rolled when they headed out to the scene. They pulled up to the old apartment building, noting briefly that it was officially abandoned. Abby had been able to peg a direction and an approximate floor based on the view out the window, but beyond that, they would have to search each room.

They headed up to the second floor, not holding out much hope that the killer was still there, but ready for the possibility. They found the petty officer...the _late_ petty officer in the fourth room. Tim looked as shaken as he had been when he had seen the body in the barrel of lye out at Norfolk. Tony noticed, but he wasn't sure anyone else had. Ziva and Gibbs cleared the other rooms of the small apartment and then they all came together in front of the remains of Angeline Johnson. Tim moved slowly forward, as if in a dream and gently placed his fingers on her neck.

"She's dead," he said tonelessly. "I'll get my camera."

Ziva looked at him strangely. Tim was acting so off. "What is wrong, McGee?"

Tim didn't turn from his bag. "I talked with her two days ago. I rode in the elevator with her. She reported to us. She was alive probably four _hours_ ago." He stood and turned around, no tears, but a strange look on his face. "Now, she's dead."

"Yes, McGee. She is. Just like every other murder we have investigated," Ziva pointed out. "Why is this any different? She is just as dead as the others were."

Tim shook his head. "It's nothing, Ziva."

"McGee, start in the bedroom."

"Yes, Boss," Tim answered. There was no sense of relief from him, just acceptance of what Gibbs was obviously doing. He stepped into the bedroom, not expecting to find much. All of the action had been in the main room. Then, he stopped. He froze, both mind and body. He was absolutely shocked and the same shock that had kept him from acting like an agent took over him again. Without even thinking, he reached out to the photograph lying, barely hidden beneath the pillow on the bed. His hand was shaking as he looked at the photo. He turned it over and a sickening feeling came over him. He actually thought he might throw up. Hardly knowing what he was doing, Tim slid the photograph into his pocket. _They can't see this. No one can ever see this. They can't know._ It wasn't germaine to the case. It couldn't be because Tim wasn't involved. The picture was all wrong; it looked off. It _was_ off. It had to be.

"You all right in there, Probie?" Tony called.

Instantly, Tim was back in reality again. He looked around the room, fearful that other photos would be there as well. There was nothing. The room was immaculate...except for..._no, there was nothing in this room. Not a thing. Nothing._

"I'm fine, Tony. There's not much here."

Tim had lied. He had not just avoided the truth or hedged. He had _lied_. He felt like it was branded on his forehead, like the incriminating photograph was burning a hole in his pocket...but what else could he do? There were too many variables. He straightened his shoulders and walked out of the bedroom.

"Do you need help in here, Boss?" he asked. He struggled not to flinch as Gibbs turned his gaze from Petty Officer Johnson to Tim.

He didn't answer at first, just raised his eyebrows in a mute query.

"I'm fine, Boss. Really."

"Then, get started."

Tim nodded and began snapping photos revealing the woman who would mark the beginning of his downfall.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Present..._

"I've seen horrors... horrors that you've seen."

Tim looked up and around, seeing no one, but hearing the voice. For the moment, his guilt was sublimated beneath a growing sense of horror.

"It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means."

This wasn't a movie clip. This was a real voice, coming from somewhere in his apartment. As had happened so many times, he was briefly frozen with indecision and fear. By sheer force of will, he wrenched his mind from the encroaching brain freeze. He pulled out his gun.

"You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that... but you have no right to judge me."

The quote was out of order. Tim remembered the original words. _Apocalypse Now_ was one of those movies Tony had made him watch. He had even enjoyed it, in a sickening way. It was the deconstruction of a demented man...a man who had probably begun as a normal human being. He took a step toward the sink in his kitchen, moving slowly around the counter, just to be sure that no one was there. The voice, even though it was only a whisper, sounded familiar, a voice from the past.


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

_24 days earlier..._

"Are you sure she doesn't know?" Shellie asked, playfully. "You haven't been especially discreet, you know."

John grinned, trailing his fingers across her back. "She's clueless. All she cares about is whether or not I bring home a paycheck every month. Anything beyond that might as well be happening on the other side of the moon. No one knows...or else they don't care."

Shellie shivered in delight and embraced him. As she did so, she looked over his shoulder toward the bedroom door. She screamed...

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim sat in his apartment, staring blankly at his typewriter. All he could see was the photograph. All he could think about was the image on the photo which was so terribly etched in his mind. _Why didn't I show it to them? I didn't do anything wrong...until I took evidence from a crime scene, of course._

Tim sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He was getting the feeling that he had changed himself...in ways he hadn't even realized in the moment. Somehow, the simple concealment he'd been engaging in for the last two years had become outright lying. How had things gone so wrong so fast?

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

_23 days earlier..._

"Sorry, O wise one, there are no fingerprints. No hair, no fibers, no DNA. I've never seen such a clean scene before," Abby said turning back to the mass spectrometer. "Everything you guys brought in is completely clean. This guy, whoever he is, is a pro."

"Then, why is it that you were able to track him so easily?" Gibbs countered. "No one is perfect."

"Not even you?" Abby asked, grinning.

"Especially not me," Gibbs answered. He didn't smile.

"Gibbs, you know what I do in here. I know my job, and I can't find anything to process." She looked speculatively at the monitor still frozen on the window beside Petty Officer Johnson's body. "I think he _wanted_ us to find her. After all, Gibbs, he sent her here to talk to you. He sent the video to Tim. He used a movie quote."

"And Ziva?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, he _did_ use a garrotte," Abby said, her mouth quirking just a little in spite of the macabre subject matter. Then, she sobered. "If he killed her to get back at you guys, then what is it that he's revenging?"

"I don't know, Abby...it's just a theory."

"You're right, and I really hope I'm wrong. We've had enough trouble with people trying to get revenge."

"That's for sure. Keep on it, Abs."

"Sure, Gibbs," Abby said as he began to leave. "It's not like I have other things to do besides look at nonexistent evidence."

"Just find something, Abs."

"I can't conjure DNA out of thin air, no matter how mad my skills may be..." Gibbs turned and stared at her. "...but I'll try."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim sat at his desk still thinking over what had happened. What could he do to fix this? He hadn't damaged any evidence that might be on it. He had put on gloves and he had kept it in his pocket. He looked around the bullpen. No one was around. He was supposedly analyzing the video...but his thoughts kept turning back to that photograph and his totally out-of-character behavior. He could at least make _sure_ that there was no evidence on the photo. He knew how to take fingerprints. All he would need to do after that was...

"How goes the video analysis, Probie?"

Tim swallowed and tried not to look at his backpack where the photograph he had stolen lay in a sealed evidence bag.

"It's so..." Tim looked at the video code again. "There's nothing strange about this video, Tony...except that there's nothing strange."

Tony smirked. "Yeah, and _that_ makes a whole lot of sense, Probie."

Tim sighed, feeling an irrational surge of anger that he knew had nothing to do with Tony's comment and everything to do with his own guilt. "I mean that whoever this guy is, he made no effort to disguise the source of the video or anything. I doubt that F. Harrison is his real name, but it was sent from a Hotmail account and you can get those with any name."

"Wait, did you say, F. _Harrison_?"

Tim looked at the email again. "Yes, why?"

"Oh, man."

"What?"

"Harrison _Ford_, McGee. He was one of the stars of _Bladerunner_, and Petty Officer Johnson was killed with the final line of the movie repeating."

"But Harrison Ford didn't _say_ the last line. Gaff said the last line. Deckard just got a voice-over."

"Does that matter?"

Tim flushed. "No, I suppose not. Why would he be so fixed on movies, though?"

"He may have an axe to grind," Gibbs said as he stepped off the elevator. "He sent the petty officer to me. He sent the video to McGee, and he used two movie quotes." Gibbs stopped speaking as his phone rang.

"So he's trying to get at all of us as a team? Why? Who would hate the whole team?"

"Anyone we arrested, Tony."

"Okay, so why the petty officer? Did you know her before she came here?"

Tim shook his head. "No. I saw her for the first time in the elevator, just before she reported to Gibbs."

They both looked back when they realized that Gibbs had stopped speaking.

"What is it, Boss?"

"We may have a serial killer on our hands."

"Another petty officer?" Tim asked.

"No. A Navy sargent and a woman we can only assume was his lover were found in his home by his wife. They've been beheaded."

"Why do you think it's related, Boss?" Tony asked.

"There's another movie quotation...painted on the wall this time."

Tim and Tony looked at each other and then back at Gibbs.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Let's go!" Gibbs strode to the elevator as Ziva walked into the bullpen.

"What is it?" she asked.

"A serial killer, we think," Tony said.

Ziva said nothing but grabbed her gear and followed Gibbs into the elevator.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"So, Ducky?"

"They were killed before they were beheaded. I can tell you that much. They were also position on the bed as they are," Ducky reported. The two bodies were entwined, the heads carefully positioned. There was a lot of blood, but most of it was actually staining the foot of the bed. "See here?" Ducky pointed to the heads. "They were both shot in the head. Good marksmanship. The beheading and positioning of the bodies was done afterward."

"Time of death, Ducky?" Gibbs asked.

"Liver temperature indicates approximately twenty-four hours ago, Jethro. I'll be able to tell you more once I get them to autopsy."

Gibbs nodded and turned his attention to the other obvious piece of evidence. Scrawled in red paint on the wall was another movie quote: "_Don't ask me to pity those people. I don't mourn them any more than I do the thousands that died at Sodom and Gomorrah_."

"DiNozzo?"

Tony looked up from his camera, grinning. "Why is it always me?"

"Yes, why is that, _Professor_?" Ziva asked significantly.

"Ha, ha. It's from _Se7en_, Boss...a movie about a serial killer."

"Uh-huh. Is this a recreation at all?"

"No. One person was beheaded, but not a couple."

"Maybe he is merely using the quotations to make a point," Ziva suggested.

"Perhaps," Gibbs said. "Is the wife still here?"

"Yes, downstairs."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As the conversation continued, Tim snapped photos and collected evidence. He walked into the master bathroom and pulled open the shower curtain. Folded neatly and lying in the tub was a blood-soaked set of coveralls. Tim began to snap photos of it. As he moved closer, he saw something wedged into the drain. Excited that the killer might have messed up, Tim photographed it and then pulled out a pair of tweezers to ease it out.

Back in the bedroom, he could hear Tony and Ziva discussing the reasons for that particular quotation and whether the serial killer was focusing on sexual aberrations. He rolled his eyes as he listened to their attempts at one-upmanship. Then, as he finally freed the object, he paled. It was another photograph. Trembling, he unfolded it. Again, he allowed his panic to override his reason. He shoved the photograph into his pocket as quickly as he could. Then, he took an extra step and deleted the photos he'd taken of the drain from his camera.

"You find anything in there, Probie?" Tony called.

"Y-yeah, I did," Tim said. "He left his coveralls here. Maybe Abby can get some DNA from it."

"Coveralls?" Tony came into the bathroom, and because he was intent only on the evidence, he missed Tim's lack of composure. "Huh. This isn't an accident. He's taunting us."

_He's taunting me,_ Tim said silently. Aloud, he added, "It looks like it. What is it about serial killers? Why do they have to do that sort of thing?"

"All the good ones in the movies do," Tony noted.

"All the good ones in the movies get caught at the end." _As do the idiots like myself._

"Not Hannibal Lecter."

"A horrific exception," Tim agreed weakly. He prayed that Tony wouldn't notice...but was really surprised when he _didn't_. Tim knew he was no actor and as rude as Tony had been before, Tim was shocked that he hadn't been scrutinizing him more closely. Granted, there was a terrible case going on, but still...

"Probie?"

Tim blinked, looked up and saw Tony staring down at him.

"What?"

"I asked if you were done documenting in here."

"Yes. I'm done. Feel free to bag it." Tim stood up and headed out into the main room. Ducky and Jimmy were just readying the bodies for transport. Tim took a deep breath and watched as the bodybags were closed. Somehow, he felt like this was his fault. Maybe there _was_ something on that first photograph. Maybe if he _had_ done his duty and shown it to Gibbs this wouldn't have happened...and yet...he _couldn't_. He couldn't let them see these terrible lies...even if he had to cover it up by telling yet another lie...because they just might believe it was true.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Tony hadn't seen how Tim was feeling, but he did notice he was more withdrawn than usual. He seemed to be off in another world more often than not. As soon as Gibbs let them leave, Tim nearly bolted from NCIS, not speaking to anyone. Convinced that it had something to do with the Smith case, Tony decided to access the case files and read up on it. It took some time as Tim had been _very_ thorough in every aspect. He had lodged an official protest when the case was declared cold. He had filed the denial of his petition. Every piece of evidence was carefully catalogued, even those that Tony and Ziva had filed. Tim had gone in after them and tidied everything up. Now that he thought about it, he did remember Tim's reluctance to let the case go.

"_It's not cold, Tony. Just because we hit a few dead ends doesn't mean that it's cold!"_

"_A few? Come on, Probie. Admit it: We have nothing to investigate. The alleged stalker is nowhere to be found. There are no fingerprints. There is no evidence. There's nothing we can do about that."_

"_Yes, there is! We can keep investigating. We can try to find out what happened! Robert failed to report for duty. They think he's gone AWOL."_

"_Maybe he's guilty."_

"_He was in Afghanistan, Tony! He was on patrol when his wife was killed. The killer, whoever he is, destroyed two lives. We have to find him!"_

"_Well, we're not going to with what we have now, McGee," Gibbs said, intervening for the first time. "The case is officially cold. Finish your paperwork and send it down."_

_Tim actually looked rebellious._

"_Am I clear, McGee?" Gibbs asked sternly._

_Tim hesitated. _

"_I said, am...I...clear?"_

"_Yes. Boss. Very clear." Tim turned around, walked to his desk and said nothing for the rest of the day._

Tony had thought that was the end of it. Tim had never mentioned the case again...until now. He had disobeyed Gibbs and hidden his continued interest from everyone. He was certainly not thinking clearly about that. As he came to the end of the files, he remembered again that Robert Smith had gone AWOL. On a whim, he decided to check out his current status. What he saw surprised him...but surprise turned to shock when he noticed where the information came from.

_Robert Smith, SEAL Team 6, AWOL since January 2006. Location: Unknown. Maintains irregular email contact with NCIS via Special Agent Timothy McGee. Last contact reported 14 November 2007. Email contact, location unknown._

The file went on, but Tony was caught by the first paragraph. That was the Correspondence file on Tim's computer, Tony was sure of it. He'd not only kept in contact with a deserter, he was dutifully reporting all contact to those who needed to know...but he was _not_ telling the people who _should_ know. He wasn't telling his team, his friends.

Tim was uptight about _something_, and this must be it. Tony gathered his stuff and headed out, determined to _force_ Tim to talk about it. It was his duty as a friend...but he had to admit he was also curious. With that, he walked out.


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

Tim felt dirty when he finally got to his apartment. The sensation had nothing to do with the crime scene he'd processed and everything to do with the new photograph in his pocket. He dumped his bag on the counter and then began to take different items from it: gloves, fingerprinting dust, evidence paraphernalia. Then, he pulled out the first photograph in its baggie and took the lot of it over to his typing desk. He hesitated before pushing the typewriter out of the way. This was his _writing_ desk. The typewriter really hadn't moved since Abby had thrown it at Mikel. Desperate times called for desperate measures, however, and he needed the space in order to work.

He put on the gloves and carefully laid out the two photographs. Then, he took his camera and began to document the photographs, meticulously taking pictures of both sides. As awful as the pictures were, he had to admit that the manipulation was good. The only reason he _knew_ it was a manipulated photo was because of the subject matter. That made it all the worse. He couldn't _prove_ it. He pushed the thoughts aside and began to dust for fingerprints on the pictures. There was one on each photograph, a clear, nearly perfect single print in the center. _There is evidence. I concealed evidence._ Tim's guilt stepped up a few notches and he felt ill.

"Probie! Open up!"

Tim jumped out of his seat and looked toward the door then back at his desk where the evidence of his guilt was laying out for the world to see. _Tony can't see this. No one can see this. I have to hide it!_

"If you don't open this door in ten seconds, I'll open it myself, Probie!"

Now, thoroughly panicked, Tim looked around wildly for someplace to hide the incriminating evidence. He moved his typewriter back into its rightful position...right over the top of the two photos. Then, he picked up all the other items he'd pilfered from NCIS and dumped them in his bedroom.

"...4...3...2..."

Tim flung open the door just before Tony got to _one_. "What do you want, DiNozzo?"

Tony looked uncommonly serious. "I reread the case file."

Tim let him in and swallowed nervously. "What do you mean?"

"The Smith case?"

Tim almost wilted in relief. Tony _didn't_ know. If this was just about the cold case, he could deal with that. "What about it?"

"I read the files...and I read Robert Smith's file."

Tim forced himself to remain calm, although the residual anger he felt was a welcome shift from the guilt he knew he deserved. "And?"

Tony looked impatient. "And Robert Smith has been in contact with you ever since he went AWOL."

Tim stared at Tony without speaking.

"Well?" Tony asked.

"What? Was there a question in there somewhere, Tony?"

"What has Smith been talking to you about?"

"That's none of your business, Tony."

"Cold or not, it's still an open case, McGee."

Tim laughed cynically. "Yes, and you're really interested in it, I'm sure. I have reported every time he has contacted me. The Navy doesn't actually care anymore. He's a deserter. If they find him, he'll be charged and go to jail. If they don't, he'll get away. Either way, they won't be able to use him."

"Do you _want_ that, McGee? Do you want him to get away?"

"I don't care one way or the other, Tony," Tim lied. "He emails me. I don't respond...not after the first time. There is nothing in the emails which is relevant to the case or to his whereabouts. That's all the Navy needs to know."

"Then, what are they about?"

"Like I said, they're none of your business, DiNozzo."

"You shouldn't hide things like this, McGee," Tony said, sounding extremely earnest.

Tim rolled his eyes and walked back to the door. _If he only knew... _"You're an expert at keeping secrets, aren't you, Professor DiNardo?"

Tony stood for a long moment before moving to the doorway. He stepped through and then turned back. "The difference, McGee, is that _I_ was keeping secrets because I was undercover. I was doing my job. Why are you?" Then, he walked down the steps.

If he had looked back, Tony would have seen the guilt on Tim's face and probably he would have known there was something else wrong...but he didn't look back and Tim managed to close and lock his door with shaking fingers. He stared at the typewriter. He had had so many reasons for keeping the emails private in the beginning. They were all good reasons...but now, he couldn't, for the life of him, remember what they were. Now, with the compounded secret he was keeping, he knew that he couldn't change his policy. The emails were private and would stay that way...the photos...he _had_ to make sure that the fingerprints weren't germaine to the case.

_I know how to run fingerprints. I just need to get them into the system without Abby knowing._ He sighed. He wasn't made for subterfuge. He couldn't believe that he had been able to lie so easily.

"What am I _doing_?" he said aloud.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_22 days earlier..._

It was five in the morning. Tim snuck into NCIS and down to Abby's lab, hoping against hope that she wasn't there yet. The lab doors opened...everything was dark. Tim let out a sigh of relief. He could run the prints through IAFIS and be out before anyone knew that he was there. He turned on the computer and sat down to work.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"No...this...is not possible," Tim whispered. He was looking at a 100 match on both prints. He ran the prints again...and again. Each time, he got the same match: Timothy McGee. He erased the search. "No! I wasn't even _there_! I don't know those people," he said more loudly. He cleared out the history of his search. "This is nothing. It has nothing to do with me. I didn't do anything. ...so no one needs to know." He shut down the computer, turned out the lights and went up to his desk.

When Tony came in a couple of hours later, he looked a little surprised at Tim's presence, but he didn't say anything. Neither did Tim. All day long, he fidgeted and wondered if Abby had somehow found his search, if she knew what he had done. He felt like he had a scarlet letter on his chest...only it was an L instead of an A.

"What do I do, now?" he asked aloud. He ran his hand nervously through his hair once...then, twice. This was really bad. He knew it, but he didn't know what to do. The biggest problem that he was facing was the fact that he couldn't ask anyone for help. The very nature of what he'd done prevented him confiding in anyone. His stomach twisted painfully.

"About what, McGee?"

Tim jumped and looked up to see Ziva standing in front of his desk. "What?" he asked, his heart pumping.

"You asked what you should do. About what?"

Tim's eyes darted nervously from his computer to Ziva's face and knew he looked guilty. "Nothing. I was just thinking."

"About what?"

"Nothing, Ziva. Nothing at all."

"McGee, how is it that you can act so guilty when you have done nothing?"

"Guilty?" Tim asked, feigning confusion...and doing a miserable job of it.

"Is this about Tony breaking into your computer?"

"Not exactly."

"Then, what?" Ziva leaned over the desk, getting right in his face. "I do not like mysteries."

Tim leaned back in his chair, feeling his stomach clench yet again.

"Ziva...what are you doing?" Tony asked as he stepped off the elevator.

"An interrogation," Ziva replied, not giving up an inch of Tim's personal space.

"Not that I want to keep you from your..._interrogation_, but could you keep it confined to after hours?"

Ziva sighed and straightened. "Tony, can you never get your mind out of the gutters?"

"I try not to," Tony said suggestively and waggled his eyebrows.

Ziva gave Tim a look that said it wasn't over and headed back to her desk.

"I think I'll go and see what Abby's doing," Tim said quickly. He stood up and walked to the elevator. He pushed the button and when the doors didn't open right away, he looked nervously over his shoulder. "I need the exercise. I think I'll just take the stairs." He fled.

"There's something going on with him," Tony said. "Do you know what it is?"

"I do not, but it is not about the Smith case anymore...at least not completely."

"What else could it be?"

"He seemed uncommonly bothered by the death of Petty Officer Johnson."

"He was acting strangely at the scene yesterday, too. Is this his first serial killer?"

"No, there were the toe eaters."

"True. I don't know, but there is something wrong."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim stopped outside Abby's lab. He didn't want to go inside. He was so afraid that Abby would take one look at him and know exactly what was going on. Still, he'd only look more guilty if he stayed lurking outside the lab. He squared his shoulders and stepped inside.

"McGee! Come and look at this!" Abby ordered imperiously as he approached.

"How did you know it was me?"

"I'm brilliant. Come and look." Abby didn't look away from her monitor.

Mouth dry, Tim approached. "What?"

"Well, you can't see it if you don't come closer, McGee."

"Right." Tim came forward timidly and looked over her shoulder. He sighed in relief as he saw the negative results.

"Why do you sound so relieved, Tim? Are you _happy_ that I have absolutely _no_ new evidence to give to Gibbs? Do you _want_ me to get fired?" Abby spun around and jabbed Tim in the chest with her finger.

"I was not relieved. That was a sigh of...of disappointment, Abby. I promise."

Abby scrutinized his face. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. All the blood on the coveralls?"

"Belongs to the victims. No hair. No skin flakes. No fingerprints. Who is this clean, Tim?"

"That guy on Gattaca?"

"Not the time for turning into Tony," Abby said, glaring.

"Sorry, Abby."

"I don't want to be the one to cheer on a serial killer, but unless he kills again and screws up, we have nothing to go on beyond a tendency to use movie quotes...and what does that mean?"

"I don't know."

"That laptop is the source of the video."

"I know."

"The email account has been shut down."

"Yeah."

"Tim! You're not helping!"

"Sorry."

Abby looked at him again. "So...Tony says that you're obsessed with the Smith case."

"Did he?"

"Yes."

"Interesting," Tim said in a noncommital voice.

"Are you?"

"No." Tim forced his voice to stay even. He couldn't get Abby mad at him.

"Are you sure?"

"Positive."

"Okay. Can you help me find evidence that doesn't exist?"

Tim raised his eyebrows a little. She had accepted it so easily...a flood of guilt washed over him..._because I don't lie_.

"I'm not sure. I can't conjure up nonexistent objects," Tim said wanly, thinking, _although I could show you some existing objects._

"Neither can I, but Gibbs is pretty insistent."

"Maybe I can find something more on the computer?" he suggested.

"Have at it," Abby said and gestured toward the machine. Tim sat down, relieved that Abby hadn't known what he'd done, and horrified that she didn't realize what he had done. _If Abby doesn't notice, how can I say anything?_


	10. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_14 days earlier..._

Tim logged into his computer. It took a little longer to log off every time he stepped away, but with Tony and Ziva both giving him strange looks, he didn't dare leave his computer open for viewing. With every day that passed and no new evidence showing up, he felt more and more guilty. His stomach was churning constantly, and he had begun avoiding Gibbs' eyes, convinced that one moment of direct eye contact would result in him spilling his guts and confessing to every wrong possible. His stomach took another twist; the tension was almost painful. _This has got to be the single most idiotic and illegal thing I've done in my life. I'm in too deep now. I can't stop. I can't pretend that it didn't happen...but I can't let them know._ His stomach twisted again, definitely painfully this time. He winced but didn't make a sound.

He checked his email and saw his most recent communique from Robert. He hesitated before opening it. They never made him feel any better. If anything, they made him feel worse about whatever case he was working...and he felt so badly about the current case as it was, he wasn't sure he could stand feeling any worse. Still...it was his responsibility. He tensed, feeling his stomach tighten painfully once more, and opened the email.

_Agent McGee:_

_This morning, I woke up and actually forgot that Joan was dead. I rolled over in my bed and looked for her. But she's not there. She'll never be there. She is dead and nothing anyone can do will ever change that. You promised that you'd find the man who killed her. Why haven't you found him yet? It has been almost two years since she was murdered. I thought you were the type of man to keep your promises. You always seemed so honorable. Why have you done nothing? Have you forgotten her? Have you forgotten your promise to me? If you no longer care, then where will the justice come from? I served my country and I am waiting for my country to return the favor. At the very least, I expected that my wife would be safe. Don't you care about that, about what I have endured, about what my wife must have felt in her last moments? Did I ever tell you that we were thinking of starting a family? I'll never have that now. All I have are the memories...of her...and of the way you investigated her death._

_Robert Smith_

Tim saw the monitor blur as a sheen of tears rose in his eyes. He let out a shaky breath as he brought up the form for reporting his contact. After he sent it out, he wiped his eyes and carefully filed the email. Then, he updated the folder containing all his contacts with Robert Smith over the last two years. Tim looked at the list. They had been coming more frequently lately, but the same thing had happened around the one-year mark. _I can't seem to do anything right at this point._ He winced again as his stomach tightened. It took a few minutes before the pain ebbed.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Present..._

"Horror. Horror has a face...and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and mortal terror are your friends."

A thrill of fear rippled up and down Tim's spine as he mentally calculated the time which had elapsed since Angeline Johnson had delivered her message. _Twenty-eight days_. The rest of the numbers were a little off, but the number of days was right.

"If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies."

Tim took a step toward his bedroom and turned his head in time to see the fist, covered by brass knuckles, fly at his face. As he slowly slid down the wall, he looked up at his attacker, a familiar face loomed over him.

The man spoke, quoting another line, another movie, and even through the haze of enveloping unconsciousness, Tim was horrified. "I had a bad dream." Tim's eyes started to close. "Only there's no one to tell me that it's over. This one will never be over...not for me...not for you..."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

_14 days earlier..._

"Julie, you're going to be late for school!" There was no movement from upstairs and Luana decided that she would _not_ let Julie manipulate her again. "I'm not going to take this again, young lady! You get out of that bed right this instant!"

There was still no sound and Luana began muttering under her breath as she mounted the stairs. "You're lucky your father already headed to work. If I have to drive you to school one more time..."

She opened the door and froze at the sight that greeted her. "Julie! No!"

---------------------------------------------------------------------

"I-I thought she was sleeping in...again. She's a s-senior this year and is getting tired of school. I-I was so annoyed..." Luana dissolved into tears again and Gibbs put a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm very sorry."

"I never h-had the slightest idea that she was s-suicidal."

Gibbs looked over Luana's shoulder at Tony who nodded.

"She wasn't, ma'am."

Luana's face rose out of her hands. "What?"

"She was murdered."

"Why would anyone want to kill my daughter?"

"I don't know...yet. I'll find out."

Luana didn't respond but dropped her head back into her hands and sobbed. At that moment, Lieutenant Justin Robinson came in the door. He ran over to his wife and held her tightly. He looked at Gibbs once, dismissing him. Gibbs nodded and mounted the stairs to Julie's room.

"Are we sure it's the work of our guy?"

"As sure as we can be without evidence, Jethro. He has no established patterns beyond the Navy fixation and the movie quotations. I should be able to tell more when I get her back to autopsy."

Gibbs looked around the room. "I don't see a quote this time."

Ducky looked up from the body he and Jimmy had just taken down from its original position hanging over the bed from the light fixture. "That's because it was on the rope. I just removed it from her neck. See?"

Gibbs leaned over Ducky's shoulder and squinted at the text. "What does it say?"

"I know what it's like to want to die. How it hurts to smile. How you try to fit in but you can't. How you hurt yourself on the outside to try to kill the thing on the inside," Ziva said. "It is from a movie called _Girl, Interrupted_." Gibbs looked at her. "I did not know it. Tony did."

"Where _is_ Tony?"

"In the backyard trying to determine how the killer got inside."

"McGee?"

A muffled voice, sounding too nervous, emerged from the shadows of the walk-in closet. "In here, Boss!"

"What are you doing?"

Tim stumbled out into the room, looking...strange. "I was just shooting the scene, Boss. ...I was thinking that maybe the killer hid in her closet and waited for her there."

Ziva raised an eyebrow. "McGee, was that not part of _The Fugitive_?"

Tim had the grace to blush. "Yes...but that doesn't mean it's not a good idea. I wasn't quoting lines or anything!"

"It _is_ a good idea, McGee. Did you find anything?"

"No," Tim admitted, looking a bit disappointed...and nervous.

"What is it, McGee?"

Tim's eyes were wide. "What do you mean, Boss?"

"You are nervous, again, McGee," Ziva said helpfully. "Why?"

Tim's eyes darted back and forth between them. "I...well...Will they blame us...do you think?"

"Who?" Gibbs asked in confusion.

"Lt. Robinson and his wife. Will they blame us for not finding the killer before he got to their daughter? Think that we haven't been trying hard enough or doing our job?" Tim actually looked pained at the thought.

"I don't know, McGee. Some people do; others don't. It's impossible to tell. I hope they don't."

Gibbs watched as Tim nodded vaguely, his hand on his stomach, and didn't say anything. He seemed distracted and Gibbs had the feeling that it wasn't because of the Robinsons.

"Are you all right, McGee?" he asked.

Tim looked back at Gibbs and then out the window. "Yeah, I'm fine, Boss."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, Boss." Tim knelt beside the bed, opposite Ziva, and began to examine the bedside table. He seemed feel Gibbs' continued gaze on him. He kept moving his eyes nervously from the table to Gibbs and back to the table again.

"Boss?" Tony's voice finally distracted Gibbs from Tim. He could have sworn he heard a small sigh as he turned his attention onto Tony. There was something wrong with him.

"What, Tony?"

"I talked to Lt. Robinson on my way in. The killer had to have used the doors to get into the house. Getting into her window would have been too difficult, I think, particularly since he wouldn't have wanted to attract attention. Lt. Robinson says that he and his wife were out late last night...but that Julie got in even later than they did. The house was empty from six until ten. He would have had plenty of chances to get inside."

Tim looked up from the table. "He could have hidden in the closet," he suggested, but looked back at the table quickly when Tony and Gibbs both looked at him.

"It's possible. There's enough room in there...and Mrs. Robinson..." Here, Tony paused and was obviously holding in a laugh. "...sorry, not funny."

"No kidding, Tony," Tim muttered under his breath.

Tony exchanged a look with Ziva and Gibbs as he continued. "_Luana_ Robinson says that this is pretty normal behavior for Julie and that she checked in with them around midnight."

"That would correspond to my estimated time of death as well, Tony," Ducky said. "Well, I think we should get her onto my table so that perhaps we can find some answers. Mr. Palmer, if you would be so good."

Jimmy began to gently place Julie Robinson in the body bag, being careful not to disturb her unduly. It didn't take long to get her in, and then, Ducky and Jimmy transported her to the truck. A fresh paroxysm of grief could be heard as they passed by the late teen's parents.

"Well?" Gibbs asked, quietly.

"I don't know, Boss. There's a lot of hair in here, but most of it, I'd be willing to bet, belongs to the girl."

"Julie," Tim said, quietly.

"What, Probie?"

Tim gulped nervously and hesitated before looking up. When he did, his face was set. "Her name is Julie, Tony. Julie Leah Robinson."

"Yes, that's true...but I don't see that it matters too much to her now how I talk about her. She's dead, Probie."

Tim stood up and glared. "It _does_ matter, Tony. She's not just some girl; she's not a misplaced object. She's a human being who _deserves_ to be remembered!" He stopped quickly and rammed a hand against his abdomen. "Saying _Julie_ doesn't take any more time than saying _the girl_." He turned quickly toward the window, his hand still clutching his stomach.

"McGee, what is _wrong_?" Tony asked.

"Nothing," Tim said flatly. He breathed in and out deeply. "There's nothing wrong. I just think you should show a little more respect for the dead."

Tony's eyebrows ran halfway up his forehead as he looked questioningly at Gibbs and Ziva. _Should I say something?_ was his silent question. Ziva shrugged.

"McGee," Gibbs said. It was only a single word, but it carried the tone of command with it, and no one, least of all Tim, dared disobey it.

Tim turned around, looking chagrined...and in pain.

"Do you have a problem?"

"No, Boss. I'm sorry," he said, not looking sorry at all.

"If you have a problem, explain yourself or deal with it on your own time."

Tim flushed. "Yes, Boss." He looked at Tony. "Sorry, Tony." Then, he turned back toward the bed.

_I wouldn't have given him a choice,_ Tony thought as the awkward silence descended. There was something more going on here besides Tim just acting strangely. Tim had actually seemed to be physically hurting. _Something is wrong and getting worse...and none of us knows what it is._

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim stepped into his apartment, dropped his bag on the floor by the door, dragged himself over to his desk, pushed the typewriter out of the way and pulled another photograph out of his pocket. He looked at it for a few seconds and then, gasped aloud as another stab of pain gripped his stomach. The pain didn't fade immediately as it had earlier that day, but stayed for about a minute before ebbing. It left him panting and gripping the arms of his chair. He looked once more at the picture and then flipped it over.

The only sound in the apartment were the ragged breaths coming from the figure hunched over on the chair. He stood and walked to his bag, pulled out the other photos and returned to his desk. He flipped each one onto its back. Slowly, as if in a trance, he arranged the three photos and stared at the resulting word. The ragged breathing stopped and silence reigned as Tim continued to stare miserably at the word: _Tim-o-thy_. Finally, he sagged in his chair and gasping sobs took the place of the silence.


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_13 days earlier..._

"Anything, Ducky?" Gibbs asked.

"One interesting thing, Jethro." Ducky gestured toward Julie's neck. "Her neck was broken."

"Wouldn't that be expected?"

"If one were hung from the gallows, yes, but this young woman was not hung from the gallows. She was hung from her light. Her body could not have exerted enough sudden force to cause that. In addition, there are no signs which would be associated with suffocation. Young Ms. Robinson was killed _before_ she was hung. In fact, while I hesitate to say she felt nothing, it is likely that her death was nearly instantaneous. She probably did not even have the time to feel fear."

"What does that tell us?"

"Well, from a forensic point of view, it tells us that our killer is not only strong, he is also very skilled. Her neck was broken very efficiently. It wasn't overdone, just the right amount of twisting force. From a psychological point of view, we can see that, with the exception of poor Petty Officer Johnson, our killer did not wish to cause undue suffering. Our adulterous couple and the teenager were killed quite quickly."

"That could just as easily be explained by a desire to kill them quickly so they couldn't make any noise and alert any possible witnesses."

"True."

"How would you fit the Petty Officer into your theory?"

"Well, it's kind of a puzzle because the death, when it came, was swift, but he took the time to instill terror in her as well. I would posit that it was done for our benefit."

"Why?"

"There is _something_ that ties all these deaths together, Jethro. Something _besides_ the movie quotations. This killer is making a point. Just because we have not yet ascertained what that point is doesn't mean that it does not exist. It only means that we do not have the information...which is odd."

"Odd how?" Gibbs asked, leaning slightly forward over Julie's body.

"Well, when one wishes to make a point, one does so using evidence to illustrate the point. Our killer would not wish to leave it to chance. He would leave us something..."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim peeked into the lab and noted Abby's absence. He crept over to the computers and prepared to run the single fingerprint through the computer, although he thought he knew what the result would be...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"...the fact that we have not yet found anything tying the bodies and the quotations together does not square with the trend..."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Certainty: 100 percent_

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"How do you know that's what he's doing, Ducky?"

"Because he started his spree by sending Petty Officer Johnson to us, or rather to you, with a message. He wanted us to _get_ that message. He made certain that we saw her death..."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim somehow resisted the urge to put his fist through the monitor when the innocent machine revealed the results...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"...that tells me that he wanted us to make no mistake in figuring out who is responsible for these murders. This is not a man who is hiding. He is waiting for us to figure it out."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

...Instead, he erased the search and turned off the computer, being sure to leave everything as it was.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What if we don't?"

"He'll finish his work and call us out on our incompetence, more than likely. He could also self-destruct... very violently, I might add."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As he rode the elevator up to the bullpen, Tim felt the telltale twisting that signaled a violent protest on the part of his stomach. As soon as the doors opened, he bolted for the men's room.

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"Anything else, forensically speaking?"

"Nothing, Jethro. I am sorry. These have been the cleanest corpses I've ever seen in terms of foreign material."

Gibbs sighed. Nothing seemed to be going for them in this case. It was getting worse every day...and could get a whole lot worse if Ducky was right...

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim flushed the toilet and walked to the sink. He washed his hands and his face and tried to shake off the feeling he had that every day he spent hiding what he'd done was one step closer to some sort of self-implosion...

_---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_10 days earlier..._

"I found you. No one else could...but I have."

"I don't understand..."

"Men like you couldn't..."

"Wait! You–"

A slash of a knife and the voice was stilled.

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_8 days earlier..._

Tim was thoroughly miserable...and he was pretty sure everyone knew it, but he'd been waspish enough that he was being left mostly to himself, although he at least had kept his temper in check after getting angry at Tony. He'd received another email from Robert a couple of days before. The words seemed drilled into his head even though he'd only read it once. _...you seem to be pretty worthless... ...I could do better... ...why don't you care... ...you can't do any more with your current case than you could with Joan's..._

Jenny was hovering more often than not. The continued lack of progress on the serial killer case was making her edgy. The media had gotten ahold of the story, of course, and while the headlines were no longer front-page news, the _NCIS Stumped_ kinds of titles were blots on the agency. However, the plain fact of the matter was that this killer had not made any mistakes as yet. There were no fingerprints, no DNA...above all, no witnesses. Tim, Ziva and Tony had been walking all over creation trying to find one person who might have seen something at any of the crime scenes. So far...no luck.

Tim sighed, winced and reached into his desk for the roll of antacids he'd started taking. It relieved the gnawing pain for a little while. He had considered going to his doctor, but he really thought it was all the stress he was feeling...and it was his own fault he was feeling the stress in the first place. He needed to get away...but where? _Where can I go that I can get away from everyone?_

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Tim edged into Autopsy. It appeared to be deserted. He sighed with abject relief and walked slowly to one of Ducky's autopsy tables. He kept everything so clean in here, and despite the somewhat gruesome nature of the work that went on in this room, it was nice to be able to be alone...

"Timothy, why are you on my table?"

Tim jumped off quickly and looked sheepishly at Ducky. "I...I just needed...some time... Ducky. I'm sorry."

"No problem, Timothy..." He looked at Tim for a long moment before continuing. "...although I do have to wonder what is so pressing that you chose to come to the morgue rather than any other place in the building. Did you need my assistance for something...the Smith case, perhaps?"

Tim sighed in exasperation. "Did Tony tell _everyone_ in the entire building about his stupid theory?"

Ducky didn't appear to take offense. "You would not be the first agent to become obsessed with solving a case, you know."

"That's not the point, Ducky! The point is that Tony has no right to go snooping through my files and then to spread around a rumor that is not _true_! I'm _not_ obsessed with that case. I'm just keeping my eye on it. I haven't even_ worked _on it in two weeks!" Tim blinked and then, his eyes went wide as he looked at Ducky. He repeated in a completely different tone of voice, "I haven't worked on it in _two weeks_! No wonder he–" Tim broke off quickly.

"What, Timothy?"

"Nothing..." Tim looked a little chagrined.

Ducky smiled knowingly. "Let me see if I can analyze your behavior regarding this unsolved case with which you are _not_ obsessed. You disobeyed orders when you were told to send it to the cold case files. You continued to work on the case, apparently quite often... how often _do_ you work on it, Timothy?"

"I don't know," Tim said defensively. "It's just when I have some spare time."

"How often do you have 'spare time' here at work?"

Tim shrugged, uncomfortable with the questions. "Occasionally."

"Timothy."

"It's just a few minutes here and there during the week, Ducky."

"And on weekends?"

Tim's gaze shifted from Ducky to the suddenly very interesting floor. "Sometimes..."

"Okay, so you work on this case which you were supposed to have let go during the week _and_ on weekends. You _continue_ to work on this case for two years without telling a soul about it. You get very angry when people do find out what you've been doing, and you don't like to answer questions about your actions. Tell me, honestly, Timothy: if you saw someone acting like that, what would you think?"

Tim continued to stare at his shoes and didn't answer.

"What I do _not_ understand is why you are obsessed with this particular case...because, based on your behavior and what I've heard, you most certainly _are_ flirting with that label. What is it about the murder of Joan Smith that is keeping you interested, even in the face of no progress for two years?"

Tim mumbled something so softly that Ducky couldn't hear him.

"What did you say?"

"It's not Joan Smith."

"Then, who is it?"

"It's Robert...her husband."

"What about him?"

Tim's head stayed down as he began to explain. "I told him...when he came back from Afghanistan, that I'd find out who killed his wife. He kept asking me for details...asking when we would find the killer. I tried to explain how hard it was to make any progress when we had so little evidence. He was so insistent. Then, he went AWOL..."

"And?"

"And he started emailing me."

"Asking for details on the case?"

"No."

"Then, what, Timothy?"

"Telling me things about what his life was like, telling me about his wife, what she wanted, who she was. He'd ask if I was going to keep my promise."

"How long did that last?"

A small chuckle escaped Tim's lips. "Two years so far."

"You mean he is _still_ writing to you?"

"Yes."

"Timothy, why did you hide this?"

Tim finally looked up. "I _didn't_. I've reported every single email, along with the header information, to the Navy. I haven't held back a single one."

Ducky put a gentle hand on Tim's shoulder and said, "But you did not tell us. You did not tell your friends."

"It's not...It's not important."

"On the contrary, Timothy. It _is_ important, and what's more, it's dangerous."

"Why?"

"Because, this Robert Smith is not letting go of his grief, his anger. It has festered for two years. That is not healthy...it is dangerous for him and for anyone who is connected with him. You, in this case."

"No, Ducky. He hasn't threatened me in any way," Tim said.

"When did you receive the last email?"

"Two days ago."

"What did it say?"

"Nothing new."

"What?"

Tim sighed as if this was a silly question, but Ducky could see that he really didn't want to answer, he didn't want to reveal the tenor of Robert's communications. "He just asked me why I wasn't making any progress and he said that I was pretty worthless when it came to keeping my promises. He asked why I didn't care anymore." Tim shrugged, but Ducky could see the hurt in his eyes.

"Timothy, this is not something you should hide. This man obviously needs help."

"I don't know where he is, Ducky. He's made sure that I don't."

"Do you ever respond?"

"No. I tried at first, but he uses a different email address every time."

"This is not something to just brush aside."

"I haven't. I've kept every one of his emails. I don't know where he is. I don't know what he's doing. All I know is that..." Tim stopped for a second. "...that I _lied_ to him, even if unintentionally, when I said that I would find who killed his wife."

"Timothy..."

"I did, Ducky," Tim said, firmly. "I lied and he couldn't take it. I drove him to what he did."

"You're letting his resentment take the place of truth. That's not right."

"No, Ducky...it's _my_ responsibility. It's _my_ decision. Good or bad...it's up to _me_. Not you, certainly, not Tony. Me." Tim spun angrily and stalked toward the doors. They opened and he stopped, his shoulders slumping. He didn't turn around, but Ducky could hear the change in his voice. "Have you ever done something stupid, Ducky?"

Ducky wished Tim would turn around because this was an abrupt shift in emotion. "Of course. I'm human. We all do stupid things in our lives. That's how we learn."

"No...I mean...have you ever done something so colossally stupid that it should be, and possibly could be, a crime?"

"Yes," Ducky said, but didn't elaborate.

"How did you fix it?"

"We're not talking about the Smith case anymore, are we?"

Tim didn't answer.

"What are we talking about, Timothy?"

"H-hypothetically...how would you fix a mistake that has no solution?"

"I don't know. If it has no solution, fixing it might prove impossible. Sometimes the best you can do is take your licks and beg for forgiveness."

"Do you think people could forgive me?"

"For what?"

Tim didn't seem to hear him. "No solution. No end." Tim looked back over his shoulder at Ducky. "I may have ruined my life, Ducky." His mouth quirked in an almost-smile. "Hypothetically...and there's no way out of the hole I dug for myself." He nodded once and then said, "I just wanted someone to know." Then, before Ducky could say anything, he stepped through the doors and they closed behind him, leaving Ducky no wiser, except that he now knew that something was very wrong...he just didn't know what it was.


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

_6 days earlier..._

It was evening. Tim lay curled in a ball on his bed. His hands were around his head, as if shielding himself from the world. The misery thundering in his head, however, had no true outlet. He could not see any possible way out of his predicament. Ducky had tried to speak to him after his pseudo-confession in autopsy, but Tim had found that he couldn't bear the thought. The desire to confess was getting stronger, but he knew he couldn't do that. It had been a full week since the last murder. Everyone was hoping that it was over...but no one really believed it was.

_Knock! Knock! Knock!_

Tim nearly jumped out of his skin at the pounding on his door.

"Tim! Tim, I know you're in there! Please, open the door."

Tim relaxed from his tense posture and unfolded himself. He rubbed his stomach briefly as the pain that was becoming more and more common flared up and ebbed away. As he approached the door, he looked carefully around his apartment, making sure that nothing was visible that could reveal his guilt. Then, he walked slowly to the door and unlocked it.

"Hey, Abby."

Abby pushed past him into the room, leaving Tim to close the door behind her. She waited for him to turn around and then said, "Tim, you look terrible! What's wrong?"

Tim opened his mouth to lie...yet again. He couldn't. The lie wouldn't come and his stomach twisted painfully again. "Abby..."

"What, Tim? What?" Abby asked.

"Please, don't ask me any questions. I...I don't want to lie to you."

"Lie to me? Tim, you _don't_ lie to me."

"I do, Abby...but I don't _want _to lie to you. Please, don't ask," Tim begged.

"Then, what can I do? If you won't let me help, what do you want? I'm here for you, Tim. Tell me."

Tim stared at her. What he really wanted was for Abby to be able to make the last month never have happened. That wasn't possible. The thought of the photos still in his backpack made him tense again.

"I need a hug, Abby," he said finally.

"Of course, Tim. Anytime. You don't have to ask." Abby wrapped her arms around Tim and felt his body shaking. "Tim, are you sure there's nothing else I can do? You really don't seem okay."

Tim started to cry. "Oh, Abby. There's nothing anyone can do. It's gone too far. _I've_ gone too far." His arms tightened around her waist as his tears increased. "What have I done, Abby? What have I _done_?"

"Tim, I don't know," Abby said, a little frightened because in all the time that she had known Tim, while he had come close to crying, she had never seen him actually shed tears. More often than not, he held it inside, not letting the tears come out, even in front of her. She had come here, intending to get to the bottom of whatever had happened to make Tim so...different...but now, she found that she couldn't demand it of him. "Please, Tim, tell me. Tell me what's wrong. Let me help."

"You can't help. Just...I can't bear to be so alone."

"Tim...you're not alone."

Suddenly, Tim pulled back and looked away, the tears gone as quickly as they'd started. He sighed sadly. "No, Abby. I _am_ alone...in the worst way possible. Thanks for the hug though. It helped."

"Tim," Abby began, but she stopped when Tim grabbed his stomach and gasped in pain. "Tim! What is it?"

"N-nothing, Abby," Tim managed through his gritted teeth. "It's not..." His sentence went unfinished as the pain got suddenly worse, badly enough to drive him to his knees.

"Tim! This is not nothing. Can you stand? You need to go to the hospital."

Tim wrapped his arms around his abdomen and tried to make the gnawing pain go away. It only got worse. Then, before he could do anything to stop it, he was vomiting on the floor. Even that gave him no relief and the pain got worse.

"Oh my...Tim, that's blood." Abby stood and began to paw through her purse, trying to find her cell phone. "Tim! Where's your phone?"

The question managed to penetrate the fog of pain currently clouding Tim's brain. "It's...in my jacket," he panted and then moaned again and retched, a violent spasm that knocked him to the floor. "Abby..." he gasped. "...something's wrong..."

"I know, Tim. I know!" Abby shouted from the bedroom. She found Tim's phone and frantically dialed 9-1-1. "Help! My friend, he's hurt! I don't know what happened. We were talking and then he started to grab his stomach and he vomited blood! I can't get him off the floor. We need help!"

Even though she was nearly screaming, Tim didn't really hear her. He thought he might be dying, the pain was so bad. All he could do was lay on the floor in agony. He whispered again, "Abby, I can't..." Another painful spasm cut off his words and he retched again. Then, Abby was beside him.

"Tim, hang on. They're coming. They're coming."

"Help..."

"Hold my hand, Tim. Just hold onto me. I'm here."

Tim grabbed her hand and held it tightly, squeezing more tightly each time the pain increased. At some point, he didn't remember when, Tim realized that he was lying on his side, with his head in Abby's lap. The pain was nearly unbearable when the door burst open and a couple of strangers began to examine him. He could barely speak in answer to their questions.

"How long have you had this pain, sir?"

"Where is the pain worst?"

"Have you had blood in your vomit before?"

Tim just moaned, lifted his head and felt his stomach twist and heave in answer to their questions. His throat was raw, his stomach was on fire, and Tim couldn't take the pain anymore. He passed out, wilfully embracing the darkness and the release from pain...and from the guilt...if only for awhile.

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"I see dead people..." the man whimpered, pulling against the ropes binding him tightly to the gravestone.

"Louder..."

"I see dead people..." the man whimpered again.

"Better."

"Please..."

"You deserve no better. You won't be buried here, but you will die here."

"No."

"Say the words again."

"No...please..."

"Again." His captor pulled out the man's cell phone and dialed a number. He listened as it rang and then, listened to the machine. Wordlessly, he held out the phone to the man's mouth.

"I see dead people..." the man repeated.

His captor disconnected and tossed the phone on the ground. This was the last one. Only a few days left before the world would end. He pulled out a bloody knife and before the man could do anything more than attempt to pull back, he was dead, blood pouring from his chest. His captor melted into the night. No witnesses.

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"Tim?"

As Tim's consciousness resurfaced, he was happy to note the new sensation of the absence of pain. He couldn't keep the guilt away, however, and the familiar tightening of his stomach muscle brought with it a muted feeling of pain that brought him all the way out of the pool of awareness, not just hovering at the surface. His eyes opened slowly and he found himself staring into Abby's eyes.

"Are you all right now?"

"What happened?" Tim asked, feeling as though he had missed something very important.

"They did an emergency surgery on you. After you passed out, the paramedics put you in the ambulance and rushed you here. You had a bleeding ulcer."

"Really? Am I okay?"

"Do you feel okay?"

"I feel better," Tim said. "What time is it?"

"After midnight. Tim, I was _so_ worried. I was terrified."

Tim nodded slowly. "Me, too."

The curtain was parted by an arriving doctor. "Well, Mr. McGee, you're a lucky man."

"Am I?" Tim asked.

"Yes. This was a fast bleeding ulcer. If your friend hadn't been there and acted so quickly, it could have turned out much worse. We cauterized the ulcer and you should be fine as we didn't see any other signs of developing sores in your stomach. I'm prescribing an H2 antagonist series to get rid of the _H. pylori_, and if all goes well, you should be fine in a few days."

"Do I need to stay here any longer?" Tim asked.

"One more checkup from me, and if everything turns out as I think it will, you'll be released. I would recommend that your friend stay with you tonight, just as a precaution. If that will work for you," he added, speaking directly to Abby.

"Oh, of course."

"Good. You, Mr. McGee, also shouldn't be driving tonight. Take it easy for a couple of days."

"Do I have to miss work?"

"What do you do?"

"I'm an investigator."

"Well," the doctor said as he began to take Tim's vitals, "as long as you don't overdo it, I see no reason for you to stay home. One more thing."

"Yes?"

"The severity and swiftness of the ulcer formation leads me to believe that this was not a simple _H. pylori_ infection. Have you had an extreme amount of stress recently?"

"There's a case we've been working on. It's..." Tim trailed off. He knew _exactly_ what the stress was. "...it's been...a hard one."

The doctor nodded. "Ulcers have been pretty firmly linked to the amount of stress a patient feels. If you continue operating at the same level, you run the risk of a relapse. Do you understand?"

"Yes. I do," Tim answered. _It means that I'll probably have another ulcer before this thing is over...then, I can go to jail._ His stomach clenched.

"Good." The rest of the examination proceeded in relative silence. Then, satisfied with Tim's status, the doctor let him check out. Abby watched Tim closely as she wheeled him out of the hospital. He looked so tired that she couldn't begin to grill him now. Instead, they rode back to his apartment in silence. When they stepped inside, Tim looked at the floor.

"That's really disgusting," he said softly. "I guess I wasn't really in a state to clean it up at the time."

"No, probably not," Abby said lightly.

Tim got a mop and a bucket. "I'd better clean it up now before the smell gets any worse."

"Tim, you shouldn't be..."

"Abby," Tim said sternly. "Do you really want to clean up my vomit?"

"No."

"Exactly." Tim filled up the bucket and began to mop at the smelly patch of floor. "If you want, I have some air fresheners...and you could open the window."

Abby watched as Tim carefully went about his cleaning. He wasn't ignoring what had happened. He was being careful...but he was also very tired. She could see it in every line of his face.

It took about twenty minutes for the evidence of the evening's events to be cleaned up. The window stayed open for another twenty minutes after that. Tim looked at Abby after he had cleaned the mop and the bucket.

"You don't have to stay, Abby. I'm okay."

"No, Tim. I _want_ to stay. You know me. If I don't, I won't be able to sleep because I'll keep wondering if you're okay. At least if I'm here, I can see it for myself."

Tim managed a weak smile. "Okay. I'll see if I can find my sleeping bag and I'll..."

"No, Tim," Abby said quickly, her hands on her hips. "We are both adults here, are we not?"

"Yes, but..."

"Tim, I happen to know that you are a consummate gentleman. Just because we used to...go out, that doesn't mean that we can't be trusted to sleep on the same bed. You will _not_ sleep on the floor...and neither will I."

"Yes, ma'am," Tim said, another small smile on his lips. It took him about two minutes to fall asleep once he laid down. Abby watched him for another few minutes as sleep smoothed out the worry-lines she only now noticed.

"What are you hiding, Tim?" she asked softly. Tim didn't answer beyond a long sigh. Abby looked ruefully at him and then slept herself.

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_5 days earlier..._

Dressed and ready to leave, Tim watched Abby sleeping on the bed. Of all the reactions he dreaded when his lunacy finally came to light, hers was the one he dreaded most. He didn't want to see Abby's face when she found out what he had done. As he thought that, her eyes opened and she stared at him for a long moment without speaking. He knew what she was thinking and he was ready to forestall any attempt to get him to talk.

"Don't, Abby," he said quietly.

"Don't what, McGee?"

"Don't ask. I can't tell you...even if I _wanted_ to."

Abby sat up and glared at Tim. "Even if you wanted to? You don't want to tell me?"

"No, Abby, I really don't. I wish I could go back in time and make it so that none of this ever happened at all...but I can't. I can't change the decision I made."

Abby brushed by him into the bathroom and got ready to leave in a sullen silence. As she came out, she saw Tim sitting on his bed, looking miserable. She walked over and sat next to him. They sat stiffly beside each other without speaking. Then, Tim leaned his head slowly over onto her shoulder.

"You'll find out, Abby...and it will be the worst thing in the world. I can't keep this a secret forever. I just wish I could."

"Then, why won't you tell me now? Get it over with?" Abby asked.

Tim sat up and stood. He started to walk away and Abby grabbed at his hand. Slowly, he turned back. "Because...I don't want to see the results of what I've done. It's cowardly, I know, but I can't help but put it off as long as possible...but I won't lie to you, Abby. Please, don't make me ruin my life sooner than I have to."

Abby stood up as well and faced him. "Tim, I can't fathom you doing something that would have the results you're claiming...but...if you say you can't tell me, then, for now, I'll try to back off."

"Thank you...and please, don't tell anyone what happened last night."

"Okay."

Together, they left the apartment, but Abby felt that Tim had separated them, as effectively as if he had placed a physical wall between them.


	13. Chapter 13

**Chapter 13**

_4 days earlier..._

"We've got another body," Gibbs said.

"Where this time, Boss?" Tim asked, the first one out of his chair.

"Rock Creek Cemetery."

"Who?" Tony asked.

"An AWOL gunnery sargent. Christopher Rasmussen. He was found tied to a tombstone by a worker."

"Is there a quotation?"

Gibbs nodded. "It's written in what appears to be blood on a piece of paper. It says, _I see dead people_."

"_The Sixth Sense_," Ziva said, unexpectedly.

Tony and Tim both turned and looked at her in surprise.

"What? I have watched movies here."

"Well? Let's go!" Gibbs stalked to the elevator, nearly leaving his team behind.

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Tim made sure he was the first on the scene. He couldn't imagine that there could be very many places where a photograph could be hiddenand he knew there would be a photo. He knew what the general setup of the photo would be as welland he could guess that there would be two letters written on the back. He had to keep his friends from finding it.

"Slow down, McGee!" Tony called. "Rasmussen has been there for awhile already. No one will mind if it takes a few more seconds."

Tim didnt answer. He was intent only on reaching the bloody corpse. The result was that he was at the gravestone, well off the beaten path, about thirty seconds before the rest of the team. He slowly circled the scene, relieved that it was so small, and saw the photograph stuck in the ropes on the back side of the marker. He glanced up at the approaching team and pulled out his camera. As he did so, he "accidentally" dropped the lens cap on the ground. He knelt down to pick it up, and in the process, grabbed the photo and unobtrusively slipped it into his pocket.

"What's the rush, Probie?" Tony asked.

Tim forced a smile onto his face and said, "The sooner we finish... Maybe this time well find..._something_."

"He has to slip up sometime," Tony agreed.

"I wish he would do it sooner rather than later," Tim said fervently, trying not to think about the evidence he had concealed in his pocket. They were headed toward a confrontation. He could tell...and he knew that it would not end well for him.

"I apologize for my tardiness," Ducky said as he arrived at the grave a few minutes later.

"What happened, Ducky? Where's Palmer?" Tony asked, looking back toward the road.

"That is the reason for my tardiness, I'm afraid. Mr. Palmer became ill on the way over. We were forced to stop by the road twice. I decided it would be safer for whatever evidence there is here if he remained in the truck."

"Is it serious?"

"I doubt it. Probably a 24-hour flu. He _is_ a bit worried about the possibility of food poisoning. He went to a new restaurant last night, but for now, he will survive. Once we finish here, I'll send him home. So, what do we have here?"

"An AWOL gunnery sergeant this time...he apparently sees dead people," Tony reported.

"That's a strangely appropriate movie quotation, considering the location," Ducky said as he knelt beside the unfortunate gunny. "I wonder which came first, the quote or the site."

"Does that matter, Ducky?"

"All things considered, Tony, I think that anything could matter in this case. We know nothing about the motivations of our murderer."

"Well, Ill leave you to him," Tony said and he and Ziva began to examine the perimeter, looking for the approach of the killer.

Ducky looked up from his charge and glanced at Tim who wasn't really paying attention. He was looking off toward one of the more ornate markers under the trees. "Have you been here before, Timothy?" Tim didn't answer. "Timothy?"

Tim visibly jumped and looked back at Ducky. "What?"

"I asked if you had been here before."

"Oh," Tim said, looking a bit bewildered. "Yes...a couple of times. Not recently though." He looked over his shoulder once more and then shook his head. "There's...there's a lot of history here."

"Yes, that there is. Are you all right?"

Tim's eyes, for just a moment, took on a deer-in-the-headlights look. It passed so quickly that only Ducky saw it. "Yes...I'm fine, Ducky." He nodded a few too many times for it to be genuine and then continued with his camera.

Ducky continued to stare at Tim for a few seconds before returning to the corpse at his feet.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Well, Ducky? Did he slip up this time?"

"Marginally, Jethro," Ducky answered as he examined the body.

"In what way?"

"Well, death was, again, nearly instantaneous. The killer use a long-bladed hunting knife, most likely a Bowie, non-serrated. He stabbed directly into the heart between the 3rd and 4th intercostal ribs. Quite cleanly."

"So, where's the slip up?"

"Oh, didn't I say?" Ducky asked. Then, he pointed at the exposed ribs. "See here? The blade nicked the rib on the way in. I'd be willing to bet that when our killer was in peak condition, he would have been able to do it without hitting anything but the heart."

"What are you saying, Ducky? Military?"

"Well, that or else he has trained himself well. Either way, we're not looking at an amateur…as has been obvious already."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim sighed softly to himself as he sat at his computer. Instead of the deep-rooted panic that had come over him with the first three photos, he now felt only a dull sense of resignation. It was a change that was almost worse than the fear and stress he'd felt before. Every minute was another minute closer to the time when everyone would know. He knew it was coming, but as he had told Abby, he just couldn't bear the thought of revealing it now. He'd taken a quick glance at it before Tony and Ziva had come in, and his idea verified the feeling he'd had at the crime scene. Was this how career criminals felt? No more adrenaline, just the dull, empty feeling that accompanied each illegal act? Perhaps it was because of the narrowly averted crisis the night before. He had picked up his prescription and had taken his pills, but he had no doubt that the ulcer had formed because of the stress and guilt he felt. The intensity of the pain he had felt made him wince just thinking about it, and he hated that Abby had been there to see it. He also hated that he had pushed her away so firmly.

"Oh, well. Pre-emptive strike. I'm just getting it over with now," he muttered to himself.

-----------------------------------------------------

_Present…_

A swift kick to his stomach brought Tim to full awareness. _Ironic that pain can do both_, he thought vaguely. He opened his eyes, or at least one of them. The right side of his face felt swollen, and dried blood caked the corner of his right eye. Pain was the first feeling that came back, then sight, then touch, then smell. It was strange that he was so conscious of the smell of his floor…because, yes, he was still in his own apartment. Sound was the last to return, and as it did, Tim became aware that _Apocalypse Now_ was still being quoted. He wondered, and almost laughed as he did so, whether he had even stopped talking while Tim had been unconscious.

"As for the charges against me, I am unconcerned. I am beyond their timid lying morality, and so I am beyond caring."

Tim rolled over in order to see his captor and nodded as the blurred memory from before he had blacked out was there. He didn't bother speaking.

Finally, the movie quotes ended. "I took pity on the others. They were a means to an end. You, Agent McGee, must be punished, and punishment doesn't happen all at once." He stood, forcing Tim to crane his neck and look up at him. "We have places to go."

"Do we?" Tim asked, finally finding his tongue.

"Yes…or, at least one place to go." He grabbed Tim's cuffed hands, a state he had missed before, and yanked him upright. "Neither of us will leave that place. Are you ready?"

Tim thought back to all the damage he had done to the case, to his friendships, to himself. What did he have to lose now, really? "Yes."

"Good." Before Tim could pull away, the man drew back his fist and punched Tim in the head again. The darkness was nearly instantaneous.

--------------------------------------------------------

_3 days earlier…_

It was early in the morning, only three. It was December and too cold for many people to want to wander about at such an hour. However, someone was out on the Anacostia River, upstream from the Navy Yard. His burden slowed his movement but only marginally. He reached his previously-chosen spot and knelt near the bank of the river. Carefully, making no noise, leaving no traces, he began to unwrap his burden. No rush. People who hurried made mistakes. A bloody knife, long and unserrated, sliced the ropes binding the plastic tarp. Finally, his cargo was unveiled, but he spent only a few seconds examining it. Then, he waded out into the river, again bearing his load. This was the one part of his plan that had a large margin of error. The angle was right, and the current as charted as he could do with his now-limited resources. With a sickening splash, he dropped his burden into the water and shoved it in the direction of the Navy Yard. If he had planned well enough, it would land in the right area and end up in the right place. They had a chance to figure it all out. So far, he was supremely disappointed.

--------------------------------------------------

_2 days earlier…_

"Ducky?"

"Yes, Abigail, what is it?" Ducky asked, a little distracted as he began to gather his equipment.

"Can I ask you a question?" she asked, hesitantly.

Ducky finally tracked in on the tenor of her question. It was so unlike Abby to be timid that his attention switched from his bag to the woman standing in the door to Autopsy.

"Of course, my dear. What is it?"

As if the questioned suddenly loosened her tongue, Abby began to speak, pacing back and forth agitatedly. "I promised him I wouldn't tell anyone, and I'm trying not to, but I don't know what else to do. It's not getting any better. He won't talk to me, and I told him I wouldn't ask even though I think I should. I think _he_ should, but _he_ won't. I can't figure out what I should do. I don't know what the right thing to do is in this case, Ducky. It's as if it's a no-win situation no matter what. If I tell someone, I might figure out what to do, but if he finds out, then he'll be mad at me and he won't talk to me anymore anyway. If I don't tell anyone, then he won't get mad, but I won't know what to do and I don't think that I can stop him anyway. What do I do, Ducky?"

Ducky smiled at the long speech, which really revealed very little. "About what, Abigail? To whom do you refer?"

"To McGee, of course! He said he wouldn't tell me and he asked me not to even ask him because he didn't want to lie to me. I can't believe that he'd even consider it, but he was as much as telling me that he wouldn't tell me the truth regardless of what I asked him. I don't like that."

"Ah, yes. Well, if it makes you feel any better, Abigail, Timothy has spoken to me as well, and he has not told me anything much."

"So you know about his ulcer and everything?"

Ducky cocked his head to the side. "Ulcer?"

Abby's hands flew to her mouth. "Oh, no. You _didn't_ know. Now, I'm in such big trouble." She started to leave.

Ducky caught her by the arm. "No, Abigail. You are not in trouble. Timothy had an ulcer?"

Abby looked as though she didn't want to tell him, but she sighed and said, "Yes. I went to his place to talk to him, and he collapsed. I had to call an ambulance, and he threw up all over the floor. The doctor said that he had a fast bleeding ulcer, probably brought on by stress. Is that possible?"

"Well, the evidence isn't clear that peptic ulcers can form solely from psychological factors, but while bacterial infections are obvious in 80 of the cases, that still leaves 20 in which the actual cause is unknown. Stress certainly contributes to the development of ulcers."

"Tim said that he'd done something that would ruin his life and he couldn't tell me. I don't know what it is, but he seems to think that there's nothing anyone can do to help him."

"That tallies with what he told me as well."

"Ducky, aren't you supposed to be out at the docks by now?" Gibbs asked from the doorway. "What are you doing down here, Abby?"

"Nothing, Gibbs. I was just chatting with Ducky," Abby lied. If she told Gibbs, Tim most certainly _would_ hear about it, and he wouldn't forgive her for that. The only person worse than Gibbs would be Tony. So she sped out of Autopsy before Gibbs could ask her any questions.

"What was that about, Ducky?"

"Abigail is worried about McGee," he said with as much nonchalance as he dared. Then, he headed toward the door. He was disappointed when Gibbs followed him, not only out the door, but onto the elevator as well. He figured they were about to have an impromptu "meeting" and when Gibbs reached out for the cutoff switch, his prediction came true.

Gibbs didn't look at Ducky. "I'm worried about him, too. Do you know what's wrong, Ducky?"

"No. He wouldn't tell me and he wouldn't tell Abby, either…and that should tell _you_ something." When Gibbs did not reply, he went on. "McGee is probably one of the most compulsively honest men in this building…and yet he feels it is necessary to lie even though he hates to do so. He actually did not want to tell a lie, but he feels that he has to. Whatever is bothering him is serious."

"Do you think it has to do with the Smith case?"

"If it does, then that isn't _all_ it is about. He mentioned that to me, but that wasn't what really bothered him."

Gibbs, characteristically, said nothing. He leaned over and flipped the switch, allowing the elevator to continue its journey to the bullpen. Once it arrived, he stepped off and looked around the room. Tim was sitting at his desk, looking pensive, not working.

"McGee!" Gibbs commanded. He watched as Tim jumped and looked at him, there was an unmistakable flash of fear in his eyes…but was it fear? Or was it something else? "There's a John Doe out on the dock. Go with Ducky and help him process the body."

"B-but, Boss, what about the case?" Tim protested.

"I'm not asking you to become Ducky's new assistant, McGee. Palmer's still out with food poisoning and he could use the help." When Tim didn't automatically stand up, he added, "Did I give you the impression that this was a suggestion, McGee?"

"No, Boss!" Tim stood, grabbed his bag and walked quickly to join Ducky in the elevator.


	14. Chapter 14

**Chapter 14**

"Well, liver temperature is useless. I'm sure this man has been dead more than a day, but his internal temperature is much too low. Either he has been in the water too long, unlikely, considering his appearance or the body was frozen after death for a time. There is no sign of rigor mortis, either. Also, no animal life," Ducky said as he examined the sodden remains of the man on the dock. Tim occupied himself with taking photographs and tried to be as invisible as possible. He didn't want Ducky to ask him any questions.

"I can try testing his vitreous humor once we get him into Autopsy, but at this moment, I have to say that I do not know when he died, although _cause_ certainly seems obvious."

Tim nodded silently and snapped a photo of the long gash on the corpse's neck. Then, his lens strayed to the man's face. "He looks familiar," he said suddenly, forgetting to keep out of Ducky's sight.

"Really? From where, Timothy?"

"I'm not sure. It's hard to tell based on how he looks now. I'm fairly certain I didn't see him when he was dead." Tim looked at the body more closely. "I don't know. Maybe I'm wrong. I can't place him."

"Did you see him recently? Or is this from further into the past?" Ducky asked.

"I said I don't _know_, Ducky!" Tim retorted with more venom than he had intended. He flushed and looked out at the river. "Sorry. I don't know where that came from."

"I think I do," Ducky said, but he didn't elaborate. "Very well. If you are finished with him, we can take our John Doe to my domain."

"I'm done," Tim said quietly.

"Good. If I could have your assistance for a few more minutes, this job will be finished more quickly."

"Of course, Ducky."

The body was placed in a bag without further comment. When it was safely stowed, Tim turned back to the Anacostia River and stared blindly at it.

"Timothy."

Tim didn't turn back, but he tilted his head slightly toward Ducky. "Yes?"

"Nothing in life is completely hopeless. You asked me a few days ago about a problem with no solution. There is _always_ a solution. No matter what you've done, there's always something you can do about it."

Tim still didn't turn around, and he didn't answer.

"I could use your help getting him back to NCIS," Ducky reminded him.

"Of course." Tim turned around and his expression was nothing less than hopeless. They walked together in silence for a few seconds. Ducky waited for Tim to say something, but he didn't. Finally, they reached the garage entrance.

"Thank you for your assistance."

"Anytime, Ducky," Tim said, still seeming preoccupied. Ducky continue to push the gurney toward the elevator when Tim reached out and caught his sleeve.

"Yes?"

"I can't do the only thing there is to do, Ducky. I _can't_."

"Why not?"

"Because I'm a coward. I can't do it."

Ducky looked at him compassionately. "If there is only one solution, Timothy, what do you expect to happen if you choose not to take it?"

"Nothing good," Tim admitted. "But I'm trapped, Ducky. I'm trapped between knowing what I have to do and knowing that I can't do it. I don't know what the consequences will be if I keep on this way…not all of them anyway."

"Timothy, you are a very capable man. I'm sure that you could, if you wanted to."

Tim turned away again. "Maybe…maybe not." He took a deep breath and turned back, looking, for a few seconds, as though he was going to spill his secret. Then, the moment passed and he shook his head ruefully. "I can't, Ducky. I just can't." He walked away.

"And yet, I think you'll have to," Ducky said to himself. He looked down at the bag on the gurney. "Well, my good man, let's see if we can't find out who you are and who put you in this position."

--------------------------------------------------------------

It was late in the evening and Abby was on the verge of screaming at her equipment…louder than the music was playing. She had never worked so hard for so little before and it irked her. She heard the doors open and winced when she knew who had entered her lab.

"Okay, Gibbs, I know what you're going to say, and I don't need to hear it. I promise I'm doing the best I can, but a single nick on a single bone is _not_ the kind of evidence that will magically reveal who this guy is," Abby said, spinning around to confront him. "All I can tell you is that the knife isn't serrated…at least the part that hit the rib isn't serrated…and you knew that already from Ducky anyway. I can't find anything that these people have in common. I can't see any place where their lives intersected. I can't find a reason, Gibbs! The only connection they all have is to the Navy, but Julie Robinson wasn't _in_ the Navy. Her dad was. Rasmussen was AWOL, but Petty Officer Johnson was on the fast track to promotion. They don't have religion, race or backgrounds in common. I thought serial killers were _supposed_ to have a reason for killing…even if it didn't mean anything to anyone else. I'm just not seeing it, Gibbs!"

"Abby!" Gibbs grabbed Abby's arms. "Abby!" he repeated when she kept talking. "I'm not here to attack your work." Abby raised an eyebrow. "We need to find out who this guy is, but that's not why I'm here this time."

"Then, why?"

"What has McGee told you?" Gibbs asked bluntly.

"About what, Gibbs?"

Gibbs just gave her the_ look_.

"I can't tell you, Gibbs. I promised!"

"Is it case-related?"

"I don't know. Honest, Gibbs, I don't _know_."

"But you've guessed, haven't you."

"I promised him!"

"Is it case-related, Abby." It was a question, but it wasn't a request.

"I think so," Abby said, reluctantly, but she hurried on, "But what case and how, I really don't know. He won't tell me. He won't tell Ducky. No one knows but him…and I promised that I wouldn't badger him about it…for now." She sighed.

"Go home, Abby."

"What?"

"Go home. Take a break. We don't have any evidence to give you anyway. Take a break and come back tomorrow."

"What about everyone else?"

Gibbs looked like it pained him to say it. "I'm going to send them home as well. Maybe a break will give us a break."

---------------------------------------------------------

"Okay, so what do we know?" Tony asked, pacing back and forth.

"That the killer is very skilled, possibly military-trained. He likes movies. According to Ducky, he is making a point," Ziva said from her desk.

"He's obviously skilled at computers along with his physical…prowess," Tim added, resting his chin on his hand.

"And he knows about _us_. This team is somehow linked to him," Tony finished. "So, what _don't_ we know?"

"Just about everything else, Tony," Ziva said in frustration. "We do not know _what_ his point is, who he is, what drives him, how he picked his victims, how he knows us…"

"We don't know if he even really knows us or if this is random," Tim added hesitantly, inwardly wincing at the lie. "We don't know how he is accomplishing all this, how long he's been planning it…"

"How he's _paying_ for it," Tony said. "Man! Why don't we know anything?" He walked back to his desk and slumped down in his chair.

"He's smarter than we are?" Tim said miserably. The ensuing head-slap made him straighten in his seat.

"That's enough of that, McGee," Gibbs said sharply. "If you think we won't catch him, then, we definitely won't."

"Yes, Boss," Tim answered.

Gibbs looked at his team. They all looked tired, frustrated and a little lost. It wasn't so much being stuck as it was the problem of not knowing where else to look. There was no reason for them to stay here in this state. "Go home."

Tony stared at Gibbs uncomprehendingly for a moment. "What?"

"Go. Home. DiNozzo," Gibbs said very slowly. "Did I stutter?"

"No, Boss. It's just that… well…"

"It is only nine in the evening," Ziva pointed out. "We do not generally leave so early during a case."

"Well, what good will you do sitting around here doing nothing?"

"Point taken. You don't have to tell me twice," Tony said, standing up. He paused and then said, "Well, actually, you _did_ have to tell me twice, but you don't have to tell me more than that."

"Then, get out of here, DiNozzo, before I change my mind."

"Right, Boss." Tony looked over at Ziva. "You ready for a wild night on the town?" he asked suggestively.

"Actually, no, Tony," she said. "I am going to go home."

"Come on, Ziva! You're becoming as dull as McGee!" he complained.

"Thanks, Tony," Tim said.

"Truth hurts, Probie," he said and was surprised when Tim winced at his words. "Too close for comfort, McGee?"

Tim forced himself to put on an obviously fake wounded face. "You know me."

"Unfortunately," Tony said, teasingly, and got on the elevator, followed closely by Ziva.

Tim gave a small sigh of relief, but then he realized that he was alone in the bullpen with Gibbs. He logged off his computer quickly and went to the elevator. It had already descended with Tony and Ziva. He had to wait. He heard Gibbs come up beside him, but he didn't look at him.

"McGee?"

"Yes, Boss?"

Gibbs didn't immediately speak. He tried to figure out what he should say, what would be the best path. What he wanted to do was stare Tim down and force him into speaking, but he wasn't sure that would help. While he continued to stand silently, Tim couldn't help but look at him.

"Do you have something to say?" Gibbs asked.

There was that look again. It was a guilty, furtive look. The kind that suspects got on their faces when they knew they were caught. He had seen that expression too many times before and too many times recently…on Tim's face.

"About what, Boss?"

"About whatever is bothering you."

Tim opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He shook his head. "No, Boss."

Gibbs could see he was lying, but he couldn't figure out why or what it was about. He shrugged. "Okay. Take it easy tonight, McGee. The case will, unfortunately, still be here tomorrow."

"Yes, Boss." Then, the elevator dinged and the doors opened. Tim stepped on and for about the first time in days made eye contact with Gibbs as the doors closed. Gibbs saw, in that unguarded moment, nearly the same expression Tim had had during the Benedict case: guilt, depression, and above all, indecision. By the end of it, Gibbs had wondered if Tim could get out of the emotional trough he'd fallen into. It had seemed like events had piled up unrelentingly. First, Tim had killed a man, which was bad enough. Then, the man had been a cop. Then, the cop had been taking down a drug dealer. Then, he had the uncertainty of whether or not he had actually killed him. Gibbs could still remember how Tim had held it all in…except for the expression in his eyes. They had shown torment. What could he have done to bring that same feeling out again?

-------------------------------------------------

Tim walked out of NCIS, and the dull feeling that had reigned throughout the day gave way to shock that he had lied to his boss…and worse, Gibbs hadn't even called him on it. He felt the tightening of his throat, and he prayed that Tony and Ziva had just left, that they wouldn't see him standing in the road, about to either throw up or cry. He couldn't decide which one…and he really didn't _want_ to know either. A deep breath. …another deep breath. Tim started walking again. He reached his car and got inside. As he leaned over to put the key in the ignition, his view of the world began to blur as the tears welled up in his eyes. He leaned over onto his steering wheel and let the tears escape. A few minutes alone in the car wouldn't change anything.

Unbeknownst to Tim, there was a witness to his tears. It was not a sympathetic witness. He had snuck into the Navy Yard, using the same skills his country had given him. It was pathetically easy. Now, as he watched the agent in his unguarded moments of despair, he felt his hands curl into tight fists. They itched to end the game now, at this moment…but no, there was one more step, one more twist of the knife that remained before he finished it. A little reluctantly, he watched as Tim sat up, started his engine and drove away.


	15. Chapter 15

**Chapter 15**

_1 day earlier…_

The next morning, the man still watched from his secured position. He watched as first, Tim arrived. He came very early and looked very guilty. He watched Gibbs park and walk into the building with that confident gait he had. He watched as Ziva came next. He remembered her and how she exuded danger from every pore. One to be careful of. He watched as Tony and Abby arrived at nearly the same moment and talked together as they entered NCIS, both looking worried. Ducky came after that. As he approached the building, a slightly pale Jimmy walked toward him. They exchanged banal pleasantries, unimportant for his needs. He simply needed to be here. He had nothing that needed doing until tonight when they all left again. A cruel smile twisted his lips. This last would be the sweetest. Whatever Tim had done to prevent being blamed, he couldn't avoid it this last time. This would be very public and very obvious. Today might be boring, but the results would be worth all the waiting.

-----------------------------------------------------

"McGee, get in here!" Abby commanded as Tim stood awkwardly in the doorway.

"What is it, Abby?" Tim asked warily.

"I got a hit off that partial we found during the Smith case last year!"

"What?" Tim asked, completely flummoxed. "From where?"

"You'll never guess."

"I don't want to. Just tell me, Abby," he said.

"Tim…it's not a full match, only a few points because it's only a smudged partial."

"Tell me, Abby," Tim repeated, more firmly.

Abby looked from the screen to Tim's face and saw the obsession that Tony had seen. She had dismissed it in the moment, but now, there was a definite hint of hunger, a desire for closure that went beyond Tim's normal attitude.

"Abby!" Tim nearly shouted.

"Calm down, Tim. It's from that John Doe that washed up on the docks."

"D-Do you have a name?"

Abby shook her head. "Sorry. I can only tell you that they're the same person…maybe. There are only four points of commonality between the two. That's not enough for a definite identification."

Tim didn't appear to hear her. "Maybe we can get an ID by showing it around the base. Someone may have seen him. We know that Joan Smith did because she reported him. Her description wasn't enough for a sketch, but maybe someone else saw him. Maybe…"

"Tim!" Abby grabbed Tim's face and turned it toward her. "Didn't you hear me? It's not enough for an identification. That wouldn't even hold up in court. If I got this kind of a match during an open case, I would reject it."

"But…"

"No buts, Tim. Even if we did accept that this John Doe and this partial are one and the same, we still know nothing. The fingerprints aren't in IAFIS with a name. Not even from the DMV." She sighed and dropped her hands. "I shouldn't even have told you."

"Abby," Tim began.

"Tim, can't you see yourself? Can't you hear your own voice? You sound crazy. You're acting like you did when I was trying to put all the evidence into storage…_two years ago_!"

Tim rolled his eyes in annoyance. "Don't you start that, too, Abby. It's bad enough to have Tony acting like I'm on the verge of some sort of obsessive-compulsive disorder. I don't need this from you as well."

Abby answered his derogatory tone with some anger herself. "Tim! There are four people in this building who _know_ that you're acting strangely with this case. You can't pretend that you're not!"

"Oh, really?" Tim retorted. "Who would those four people be?"

"Tony, Gibbs, Ducky, me. Ziva probably knows as well, but I haven't asked her."

"How many times have you all been talking about me?" Tim asked, feeling an irrational surge of anger. "Huh, Abby? I guess I'm just the hot topic for gossip. Here's McGee and his strange desire to actually finish a case!" Tim's voice took on a nasty sarcastic edge. "What a shock! An NCIS agent who wants to find a murderer. That [inever[/i happens."

"Tim, it's been two years! You aren't letting this go! You don't have to forget it, but you could have died last week! If I hadn't come over…you wouldn't have been able to help yourself. Do you think that's _normal_?"

"That had nothing to do with the Smith case! You don't even know what you're talking about, Abby!" Tim found himself shouting. "So are you spreading rumors about that, too, after you promised not to? Or are you just confining yourself to my supposed obsession?"

"I might know if you'd trust me, Tim! I might have some idea of what's going on in your head if you would _tell_ me something about why you are ready to lie to keep a secret!" Abby shouted back. "The Tim I know wouldn't lie! The Tim I know wouldn't try to force me to lie for him!"

"Maybe I'm not the Tim you thought you knew! Maybe it's not so easy to plug me into a single hole! Maybe I never _was_ the man you thought you knew! If it's so hard for you to get that, I'll just stay out of your way! You can get back to work!" Tim shouted and stomped out of the lab.

"Don't tell me what to do!" Abby shouted at his retreating form. After the doors closed she stood quietly in the middle of her lab. "Well, that went well," she said to herself. She turned to the camera which was connected to Autopsy. "Did you hear him, Ducky?"

"Yes, Abigail. It would have been difficult not to. How was that for you?"

"He's different, Ducky. Very different. Tim doesn't usually act like that. He doesn't hurt me. What should we do?"

Ducky sighed and looked over his shoulder. "Yes, Mr. Palmer, you can put our John Doe away for today. And for goodness sake, take a break, man, before you collapse! There's no reason to try and fit 48 hours into a single day." He turned back to Abby. "I am not sure what to do at this point. I'm certified in _forensic_ psychology, not psychology itself. There is a significant difference between the two."

"I don't like this, Ducky."

"Well, if it's any consolation, Timothy obviously doesn't either."

Abby smiled. "It's not, but thanks. Why is he getting so angry?"

"I think it's because he's more angry at himself than at you. He hates what he's done…whatever that may be. I think his outburst is more indicative of the turmoil in his current mental state, but unless you are willing to engage in torture, I do not think that you can force Timothy to explain."

"I want to though."

Ducky smiled. "I'm sure you do. I actually think that _he_ would like to be forced…but I could be wrong there."

"Ducky, you're never wrong."

"Everyone is wrong sometimes, my dear. That includes me." Ducky paused significantly. "That also includes Timothy."

"I know that, Ducky."

"And yet, I'm not sure if you really do, Abigail," Ducky chided gently. "What you shouted at Timothy reveals a whitewashed version of a human being. Saying that he doesn't lie backs him into a corner, so to speak. No one is perfect. We all make mistakes. Perhaps Timothy also believes that he doesn't lie…and that makes him feel more ashamed because he is now doing something that is not a part of who he feels he is. Maybe if he felt more free to mess up, he wouldn't be hiding whatever it is that he has done."

"Are you saying that this is my fault, Ducky?" Abby asked, stung by his assessment.

"No, Abigail. I'm not. I'm saying that trying to force someone to act a certain way can never have good consequences. Timothy made his own choice, as he told me very vehemently. I just hope the next choice he makes will be the right one, because, right now, I don't think he is choosing well."

----------------------------------------------------

Tim sat at his computer, all pretense of not working on the Smith case abandoned. He was sifting through two years worth of work. He had gone over the evidence again and again. He read and reread the interviews. Every time, he had dutifully typed up his thoughts and saved them, marking each time he updated the files. He looked at Joan Smith's photo at least once a day, although he would never have admitted it to anyone. He didn't want to forget who she was. He looked at every photo, every lead that had led nowhere, every possible suspect, the photos of the crime scene, the photos of bystanders, the attempted sketch Joan Smith had done. That John Doe just _had_ to be from the case. He _had_ to be. That must be where he had remembered him from. He must have seen him somewhere. He must have…

"McGee?"

Tony's hesitant question brought Tim out of his reading with a jolt. He looked at Tony and remembered that he was annoyed with him.

"What, Tony?"

"What are you doing?"

"Working."

"On what?"

Tim looked back at his computer without answering.

"I am curious as well, McGee. What is so important on your computer?" Ziva put in. She, of course, was not content to stay at her desk and wait for Tim to answer. Instead, she stood up and approached him.

"There are lots of important things, Ziva. You probably wouldn't understand most of them," Tim replied, more rudely than he had intended. He realized it almost instantly as Ziva's eyebrows suddenly raised.

"Really," she replied with a dangerous edge.

Tim was wondering what he could say to keep Ziva from killing him when he absently clicked on the next file in the suspects list. Then, everything left his mind: Ziva, Tony, his guilt. All of it was gone in a flash as he stared at the photo of a man who had been declared a person of interest, but had never been found. "That's him!" Tim stood up and pointed at his computer screen. "It's him." He pushed the print button, ran to the printer, past Ziva and Tony who both looked at Tim in confusion, and to the elevator.

When he got to Autopsy, he looked around for the John Doe and didn't see him.

"Where is he?" he asked Jimmy, barely noticing his pallor.

"Who?" he asked. "Dr. Mallard?"

"No! The John Doe! Where is he?" Tim repeated impatiently.

Jimmy was a little hurt by Tim's unconcern and uncharacteriscally brusque manner. "That one," he said, pointing to the appropriate drawer. "And, no, I'm not feeling so good, thanks for asking."

Tim barely heard him, so intent was he on verifying what he was hoping. He ran to the drawer and pulled it open. He put the photo by the corpse. The two matched.

…As he stared at the murdered man, he realized that he didn't feel any better. He had expected to. He had thought that if he could just make some headway, he'd feel like he'd done something right…but he didn't. He felt awful. This wasn't firm evidence. It was all circumstantial…and the man was dead. There was no name attached to him. They had only a smudged partial print linking the man to Joan Smith and the fact that he had been on the base sometime before her death. There was no means, no motive, no opportunity, nothing.

"I have nothing," Tim said aloud. He turned around and saw Jimmy looking at him oddly. "I have nothing. Two years and nothing to show for it. Nothing but a corpse that may not even be related." Tim looked around the morgue and felt the walls closing in on him. He closed his eyes and was surprised to feel a hand on his arm.

"Breathe, McGee."

For a moment, the words didn't register.

"Breathe!"

Tim followed the instruction and was surprised that he felt a little better…at least he wouldn't pass out now. He opened his eyes and found that he was face to face with Jimmy.

"Bad day?" Jimmy asked.

Tim wondered how to answer. He suddenly remembered what Jimmy had said when he had come in and felt ashamed. Jimmy was being nice to him and he _really_ didn't deserve such kindness when he'd been acting like such a jerk.

"I'm sorry, Palmer. Should you be back already?"

Jimmy smiled. "No big deal, really. I'm feeling better than I was yesterday, which isn't saying much, and I guess I'm a glutton for punishment. Luckily, it wasn't a serious case of food poisoning. Just don't go to the new Chinese restaurant near the Metro. I reported them."

Tim felt his mouth stretch in a sad parody of a smile.

"So, bad day?" Jimmy asked again.

Tim nodded. "You could say that." _You could also say that it was a bad week, month, year…life. What else could go wrong?_ he added silently.

"Well, I hope it gets better. We'll get a break on the case. No one gets away with it forever."

Tim felt the guilt he'd managed to push away surge to the forefront again.

"Right. Thanks for your help, Palmer. I hope you feel better." It was trite, but it was the best Tim could do at the moment. His throat felt like it was closing up.

"I will," Jimmy replied easily, and Tim envied him. Food poisoning was no fun at all, and Jimmy didn't really have it easy, but Tim felt as though anyone's life would be better than the wreck of his own.

"Good. See you later."

"Bye, McGee," Jimmy said and watched him leave.

----------------------------------------------------

When Tim got back up to the bullpen, Tony and Ziva seemed to have been frozen in place during his absence. Tim glanced out the windows toward the river, then up at the ceiling. He walked to his computer. Most of the files were still open. He looked at them for a long moment. Then, he felt that strange anger that had consumed him so often in the last few weeks. He leaned over and pulled the various windows into an organized sequence. Then, he straightened and looked at Tony and Ziva.

"You know what? I don't care. It doesn't even matter. Everything I've done…" he couldn't even find the words. "You want to see what I've been doing for the last two years? Go ahead. I have it all organized. I don't care. I'm not doing any good anyway."

Tim stalked past them again, thinking at first that he'd go visit Abby, but he stopped when he remembered that he couldn't go visit Abby. So, instead of getting on the elevator he went to the stairs and slammed the door behind him.

---------------------------------------------

How long he sat on the stairs, Tim didn't know. He had gone down half a flight and stopped. Slowly, he had sunk down onto a step. He leaned forward, his hands clasped together, his head bowed. He felt a little guilty for sitting around while he was technically still on the clock, but he just added that to the list of things he was doing wrong and it didn't seem to mean much in comparison. As time passed, his head sunk lower and his hands came up around his head. In his mind, the Smith case and their serial killer were conflating. His failure in one counted as failure in the other. The mistakes he made in one were mistakes in the other. He couldn't solve one without the other.

_And I can't solve either one_, he thought miserably. He had shouted at Abby, the one person who was always there to give him support. He had as good as admitted he was doing something wrong to Ducky. He had lied to Gibbs. He had insulted Ziva and fought with Tony. He'd even ignored Jimmy. Not only was he a criminal, he was a terrible friend.

The door above him creaked open. Since no one ever took the stairs in this building, Tim could only assume that someone was looking for him. He thought about getting up. It wasn't worth it. The steps approached him slowly. The tread was too light to be Tony. That meant it was Ziva. Maybe she was coming to kill him for his rudeness. _She's welcome to it. I'll even give her my gun_, Tim thought wryly. He didn't really have a death wish, but at this moment, death would be easier than trying to put his life back together.

The steps continued. Then, she was right beside him. She sat down without speaking. Tim could sense no anger from her.

"Did you read the files?" Tim asked, finally.

"Some of them, not all. There are a lot of them," Ziva answered.

Tim couldn't bear to even lift his head to meet her gaze. "Two years is a long time." He paused. "Sorry for what I said."

"It was rude, but it was also probably true."

"That's no reason for me to have said it."

"No, that is true. I accept your apology."

"So…what did you read?"

"The emails, and the suspect list. Tony wished to read the interviews again, but I ruled over him."

"Over-ruled."

"Yes, that, too."

Tim gave a muffled laugh from the shelter of his arms.

"McGee, I do not understand why you would not tell us that he was telling you all those things."

"I had my reasons."

"What were they?"

"I…I don't really remember anymore."

"He is a cruel man."

"No, he's not."

"Yes, McGee. What he is doing to you is cruel. He is trying to make you feel as badly as he did, as powerless."

"I should."

"You did not kill his wife. You were not responsible for protecting her. You did your best to find her murderer. He is trying to hurt you with words. That is not right."

"He's just grieving."

"At first, perhaps. I do not think he is anymore. That last email was much worse. He wishes to punish you for what he perceives as your failure."

"I did fail. Even when I find something, it turns out to be nothing."

"You did not fail."

Tim didn't answer.

"McGee?"

"Yes?"

"Sit up."

"Why?"

"It is bad posture."

Tim laughed again and lifted his head. "That's certainly true," he said ruefully.

"Come, then. We still have things to do, yes?"

"There's always something to do," Tim answered with chagrine.

----------------------------------------------

It was especially late when everyone began to leave. Jimmy left first, followed about an hour later by Ducky. Then, Ziva and Tony left, Abby trailing behind. Gibbs and Jenny left together. Tim came out last. The same cruel smile twisted the observer's lips. He was shaking with anticipation. Everything was ready. It was all planned. Just a few more hours and the endgame could finally begin.

_ Then, Agent McGee, you will finally die…and so will I._


	16. Chapter 16

**Chapter 16**

As the lights went out in NCIS Headquarters, an invader walked into the building. He had the appropriate identification. He was friendly and polite. He cracked jokes with the night crew. No one thought twice about his presence because it seemed that he belonged there. No one followed his progress. No one even really remembered his presence after he was out of their sight. No one noticed when he went down to Autopsy. No one noticed that he did not leave by the main entrance. He was a phantom.

_That morning…_

Tim woke up that morning feeling the tightness in his chest easing, just a little. He needed to apologize to Abby. He shouldn't have shouted at her like that. He got out of bed and got ready without thinking about anything. Then, as he walked out of his bedroom, he saw the four photographs, arranged with the reverse side up and he felt the twisting, sinking feeling take over again. He looked at the four syllables and had to keep himself from wincing. He firmly turned himself away from them and walked into the kitchen to take his medication, but his mind was still on the faked evidence lying on his writing desk.

_Tim-o-thy Mc_

He just knew that there would be another dead body and another photograph…and if they didn't get some evidence, they couldn't prevent it. Tim stared at the photos, knowing deep down that this _was_ evidence, even if it was faked. He still couldn't believe that he had stolen them. He couldn't believe that he was guilty, yet again, of withholding evidence during an investigation. He remembered when Gibbs had chewed him out for that before, but that time, he had seemed more angry that Tim hadn't _trusted_ him enough. Somehow, it didn't seem likely that trust would be in Gibbs' mind. The fact that Tim had committed a crime, not just once, but repeatedly, would surely take precedence over something so simple as trust.

Still…Tim looked at the photos again. He knew what he had to do. He had told Ducky that he couldn't do it, that he was a coward. That was still true…and yet…

"We have nothing else. I can't keep hiding these things. What if I _am_ the link? What if it really _is_ all about me? What if those people wouldn't have died if only I had not been so dumb as to steal evidence? Even if I get fired…even if Gibbs kills me…even if I go to jail…I have to do something about it," Tim said aloud. It felt like a stone was lodged in his stomach, but at the same time, making the decision to come clean made a huge difference. He nodded and left.

----------------------------------------------------

By the time he got to the Navy Yard, Tim was having, not only second thoughts, but third thoughts and fourth thoughts as well. He was terrified at the idea of having to confess what he had done. He was admitted to the Yard without even noticing what he said or did.

"Just a moment, Agent McGee," the guard said and then turned to sign out another man.

"Fine," Tim said absently and waited, his thoughts roiling with doubt. His mind was completely on what he had to do…what he wasn't sure he _could_ do. Suddenly, he was at his parking spot. … _…Is that a body? In my space? Oh no…_ Tim stopped his car and got out. The John Doe from Autopsy, the one they had pulled from the river, he was lying, spread-eagled in Tim's parking spot. Written across his bare chest was another movie quotation: _Death is only the beginning._ Tim stared blindly at the naked body. That same blind panic that had gripped him before, took possession of his mental faculties again. He began to step toward the body, intent on finding the photograph he _knew_ would be there.

"Hey, McGee! I almost beat you here today. What…" Tony's question went unasked as he stepped around the cars and saw the John Doe.

Tim stopped, nearly caught in the act of disturbing a crime scene. He looked at the corpse with frightened eyes.

"He…he was just lying there. It wasn't me," he said fearfully.

"What?" Tony asked, confused at Tim's declaration.

"It's…it's the John Doe…from the docks. I didn't do it, Tony. I didn't!" Tim said, his voice now tinged with panic. He could see the photo, rolled into a cylinder and lodged in the body's oral cavity. It was so close, but he couldn't take it.

"Didn't do what, Probie? Kill the guy? Of course you didn't. He's been dead a long time. Even I can see that. What's wrong with you?"

Tim didn't answer. He couldn't take the photo. It was there and Tony would notice it all too soon. When they saw what was on it, he'd have to confess…but would they believe him when they saw the photo? His concealment would look like a indication of guilt. How could he explain when he wasn't sure he knew himself?

"Yo! Probie! Snap out of it!" Tony said loudly as he smacked Tim on the head.

Tim finally tore his eyes away from the photograph, so tantalizingly close. Maybe… "We-we need to process the scene, Tony."

"Yeah, that's what I just said, McGee," Tony answered. "Go get the kit. Gibbs is already here. He should see this." Then, Tony suddenly began to look around.

"What, Tony?"

"This body couldn't have been here long. It would have been noticed. I didn't see anyone when I was coming in. Did you?"

Tim knew that he could have _hit_ someone and not really noticed when he had arrived at the Yard. "No. No one."

"I don't see anyone now," Tony said and sighed. He looked back at the body and then realized that Tim hadn't moved. "Probie! Go!"

Tim nodded, breathing too hard. "Right. Sorry." He turned and ran for the building. No sense in putting off the inevitable. He ran past the desk, holding out his badge as he did so. He skipped the elevator, his thoughts suddenly turning to Petty Officer Johnson who had come here and started this whole thing…only to be the first victim a day later. He was in the bullpen before he had time to think about how tired he felt.

"Boss!" he said breathlessly, when he got inside. Ducky was already there, looking concerned about something.

"What is it, McGee?"

Panting, Tim tried to get out his message. "Body…outside…from the morgue…in my spot…wasn't me…" he said.

"Breathe first, McGee," Gibbs said, looking a little amused.

Tim bent over and gasped for breath. His stomach was in knots still, and there was a little hint of pain. He wasn't sure if it was the start of another ulcer or just a stitch from sprinting. He decided that for now, ignorance was bliss.

"All right?" Gibbs asked.

Still panting a little, but able to be coherent, Tim nodded. "There's a body in my parking spot, Boss. It's the John Doe from the docks. New movie line."

"Why your spot?" Gibbs asked.

Tim knew he probably looked incredibly guilty, but he shrugged. It was _possible_ that he was wrong, that the photo wouldn't be of him this time. The rational part of his brain scoffed at that weak logic.

"I don't know. I, uh, need to get my kit."

Gibbs and Ducky were both staring at him speculatively. He swallowed and forced himself to walk calmly to get the processing kit.

-----------------------------------------------

"What do you got, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asked, as he, Ducky and Tim arrived.

"There's a photograph in the guy's mouth which is odd. The quote is from _The Mummy_. Strangely appropriate considering the guy is already dead. I looked around to see if there was anyone nearby, but I couldn't find anyone."

"Okay. Get to work."

The photograph was the first to come out. Tim felt so tense that he couldn't even speak. There was a painful reprieve when it turned out that the photo had been taped shut. They could see the writing, but they couldn't figure out the letters. It was decided that they would leave it for Abby. As Tim photographed the body for the second time in three days, he knew he was hurtling towards the point of no return. All his courage had left him and he was waiting for that moment when the choice would be taken from him.

-------------------------------------------------------

"Gibbs?" Abby's voice seemed to resound through the bullpen. Tim knew what was coming.

"You all need to get down here," she said, her tone was one of disbelief. "_All_ of you."

"Okay, Abbs," Gibbs agreed and looked at the rest of them. "Well, you heard her. Let's go."

Everyone headed toward the lab, but none of others noticed that Tim grabbed his bag as they left. He was the only one who knew what was coming.

------------------------------------------------

Abby looked at Tim first. Her expression was inscrutable, but Tim knew. He gave a slight nod, acknowledging what she was probably thinking. She said nothing and turned back to her computer.

"Okay," she said in a strangely subdued voice. "I opened the photograph. It wasn't hard, and there was only one fingerprint on it. Right in the middle, clear as day. I ran it. There's a word written on the back that I don't really get." She stopped.

"Abby, I think that is the shortest and least informative explanation you've ever given," Tony said, lightly. "Let's see the photo."

Abby turned around and looked at Tim again. He didn't speak. She pursed her lips and brought up the image she'd made of the photo. When it came up, silence reigned in the lab. That was the first time they noticed that Abby's music was not playing. Everyone's eyes moved onto Tim who just stared at the photo and felt the painful twisting of his stomach when he knew that his guilt was about to come to light.

The photo had two figures in it: Tim and the John Doe. The John Doe was most definitely alive, but he was tied to a chair and looked frightened. His mouth was open and his eyes were pleading. Tim was facing him, turned slightly away from the camera, holding a Bowie knife, edge on to the man's neck. There was a hint of blood around the blade. The photo had been taken right at the moment of attack.

"Wh—," Tim's throat closed up and he had to start again. "What's on the back, Abby?"

"Just the word, _Gee_. I don't get that. I don't get this either, Tim."

"Neither do I," Gibbs said. "Care to explain, McGee?"

Tim had not moved his eyes from the photograph. Now, he looked at Gibbs. At that moment, Gibbs saw the full gamut of emotions he had noticed before. Tim had a moment full of indecision and guilt. Instead of answering, he turned to his bag which he had set on the floor. He crouched down in front of it and then, as if in slow motion, brought out four evidence bags that no one had ever seen before. He walked past Gibbs, Tony, Ziva and Abby over to the counter. Carefully, he laid out the four photographs in their sealed bags. He laid them out face down first. Drawn to this silent display like iron filings to a magnet, the other four moved to where they could see what Tim had to show them. They all saw the incomplete name.

_Tim-o-thy Mc_

They knew, then, what the word meant on the back of the fifth photograph. Still, no one spoke as Tim very slowly, his hand shaking, turned photos face up. They were all variations on the same theme. Each one showed Tim in the act of murdering each of the victims. His hands tightened the garrotte around Petty Officer Johnson's neck. His hands held the axe as it plummeted toward the exposed neck of the adulterous sargeant. Tim broke the neck of young Julie Johnson. He wielded the knife as it penetrated Rasmussen's heart.

"Where did these come from, McGee?" Tony asked, his voice hollow.

Tim turned from the photos, his face drawn and pale. He was shaking from head to toe, but his voice when he answered was deathly calm.

"I took them…from each of the crime scenes."

That revelation seemed almost as laughable as the idea of Tim being a murderer because it was Tim saying it…but there was no humor in Tim's voice nor in his expression.

"Why?" Gibbs asked.

"I wish I could tell you, Boss."

"Try," Gibbs said, his voice becoming harder as his mind processed the events.

Tim winced, but his voice was as calm as it had been before. It was too calm.

"I found the first one in the bedroom of the apartment where we found Petty Officer Johnson. I saw it…I saw what was on it. I panicked. I couldn't let anyone see it."

"Why?"

"It showed me killing a person I didn't even know. It was a fake. I knew it, but there was no evidence in my favor. No one would believe me. It seemed like a cruel joke. I had to keep it from being seen. Then, when the next photo showed up in the drain at the second crime scene, I realized that it wasn't just a joke. There was a reason for it. I processed both photos. That fingerprint is on each one of the photos and I'll take a wild guess and say that it's my fingerprint on the fifth photo. Am I right, Abby?" Tim turned to Abby, who looked absolutely horrified. "Am I right?" he asked again.

"Yes," she whispered.

He nodded. "I have no excuse, Boss."

"No kidding!" Gibbs said, suddenly letting his anger show in the volume of his exclamation.

"The third photo was in the closet. The fourth was in the ropes binding Rasmussen to the headstone. I processed them all for fingerprints. I'm sure Abby can find something more, but that was what I found. Every time I saw them, I felt like I was watching someone else acting, like it wasn't me taking them. It _was_. I withheld all the photos. But I did _not_ kill those people. I don't know any of them."

"Do you have any _idea_ what you have done, McGee?" Gibbs demanded.

"Yes, Boss," Tim said, his face now devoid of expression. "I withheld evidence. As you told me last year, it's a crime. The punishment ranges from fines to jail time, at the discretion of the judge."

"What about the _case_, McGee?" Tony asked. "Didn't you even _think_ about that?"

Tim looked at Tony. Tony saw the guilt in his eyes, although his face betrayed no other emotion.

"Yes, Tony. I did. I managed to convince myself that since the pictures were obviously fakes they weren't important. I knew it was wrong. I knew that it could be important to look at it from the angle that this was my fault, but after I took the first photo, I couldn't…" Tim's voice shook. The iron-grip he had on his emotions was weakening. "I was too much of a coward to admit what I'd done. So I hid them even though I knew they could be the key to finding the killer, even though I _knew_ that it was only a matter of time. Every time I thought about confessing, all I could see was the fact that I was the murderer in each of those photographs. They're manipulated, but I only know that because I know that I didn't kill them. The manipulation is that good."

Tim looked at the people whom he had formerly counted as his closest friends. Abby still looked horrified. Tony was disbelieving. Ziva looked…different, somehow confused, almost…betrayed? Gibbs was angry, but he was also…hurt, perhaps. Tim had managed to keep himself calm so far, but the lack of extreme emotional outbursts was pressing in on him as the emotions built up inside him.

"Do you want my badge and gun, now, Boss? Or would you rather arrest me, first?" Tim asked. It sounded like a joke, but it wasn't. No one laughed. Abby actually whimpered.

Gibbs stared at Tim for a long time in silence as if he was reading him. Tim wondered if he was trying to decide whether or not Tim was a killer. He said nothing. He had said all he could say. He was afraid that if he tried to speak again, he would self-destruct.

"Get out of here, McGee," Gibbs said quietly.

"Boss?" Tim asked, unsure of what he had heard.

"Get out of here. Go home. Go wherever. We have a case to solve." With that, he walked by Tim over to Abby. Only Ziva and Tony could see the absolute desolation that washed over Tim's face at Gibbs' dismissal.

Tim walked by Tony and Ziva toward the exit, expecting…_something_ to happen. He didn't know what. The lab doors opened and he paused before he took his final step out of the lab.

"I won't leave town, Boss. I'll have my phone, and I'll come in whenever you want me to."

Gibbs didn't respond, and Tim couldn't bear to turn around and see if he had even acknowledged his words. The tears were closer to the surface than he wanted anyway, but this silent departure was not what he had expected. He wanted something to happen. Shouting or fighting or anything, even a swift kick in the pants. He deserved much worse…and he had nothing to show for it. Tim continued on his way and heard Gibbs' muffled voice giving instructions as the elevator doors closed with tragic finality.

--------------------------------------------

Tim walked into the bullpen and looked around it as if for the last time. He walked over to his desk and hesitated before leaving his badge and gun in plain sight. Gibbs hadn't said to do that, but Tim knew he didn't deserve the respect such things gave him. He sat down at his computer and composed a short message which he sent to his team, his friends.

_Guys,_

_ I know that it doesn't cut it, but I'm so sorry for what I did, for what I said. I know I've ruined everything, and I'm so sorry. I don't know how this happened. I really don't. I don't know how I became a criminal. I…I deserve whatever may happen to me, and I won't contest it. I don't want to make a scandal for NCIS or for any of you. If there's anything you need to get from my computer, I've left it unlocked. You have full access._

Was there anything else he needed to say? Words were so inadequate to express the depth of his anguish. He shook his head and finished it.

_I'll say it again even though I know it does no good: I'm sorry._

_ Tim_

He sent the message and then walked out of the bullpen, certain that he'd lost everything that made his life worth living.


	17. Chapter 17

**Chapter 17**

The silence in the lab didn't last long as Gibbs immediately began to issue instructions.

"Abby."

Abby didn't answer, still frozen in shock.

"Abby! Come on! I need your help!" Gibbs said.

"For what, Gibbs?" Abby said miserably. "This looks bad. This _is_ bad. Tim looks like a serial killer."

"That's not possible, Boss," Tony said. "This was dumb…_really_ dumb, not at all up to McGee's normal level of intelligence, but McGee's not a killer. There's no way it could be him."

"We did not understand him. The clues were there for us the whole time," Ziva said suddenly.

"Are you saying that you think McGee killed those people?" Abby asked, angrily.

"No!" Ziva said firmly. "He most certainly did _not_ kill anyone. McGee does not have the capacity to kill as mercilessly as this man has done…no, what I mean is that we could have seen what was wrong if we had wished to. We did not. We let this go too far."

"This is not about blame, Officer David," Gibbs interrupted. "This is about finding a killer before he strikes again. For some reason, McGee is being blamed. We need to know why. We need to find a reason." He turned to Abby. "Abby, I need you to run every possible test on these photos. McGee found fingerprints, but he didn't do anything else. Remember: the chain of evidence has _not_ been broken."

Tony looked at Gibbs with a dawning understanding. "That's not going to work, Boss. No one will believe that."

"For now, that doesn't matter, DiNozzo. If someone asks you, say that the chain of evidence is not broken. McGee is a federal agent and he collected evidence during the course of a federal investigation. What really matters right now is that we use this evidence we didn't have before to find a killer before he can strike again."

Abby nodded and turned back to the carefully preserved photos Tim had left behind. "I'll do it. I'll find something," she said.

"Ziva, Tony, go through all the evidence again. See if you can find some link between all the victims and McGee. He said that he doesn't know them. See if there's something he forgot or if there's something he doesn't even realize that he knows."

--------------------------------------------------

Tim didn't know where to go when he left NCIS. It wasn't even noon. He couldn't go home yet. He couldn't bear the thought of going there…as if it was confirming the end of everything by going home in the middle of a work day. He drove. He tried to put it all out of his mind…but he couldn't. Everyone's faces kept running through his mind. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and set it on the seat. He wanted it to ring. He desperately wanted the phone to ring. It would give him some hope that he wasn't completely abandoned.

The phone didn't ring and Tim drove and drove until he thought of somewhere to go…

------------------------------------------------

Ziva and Tony both noticed Tim's badge and gun on his desk, but they didn't say anything about it. Instead, they went to their computers to begin working. They didn't check their email.

"Okay, I'll take the adulterers and the AWOL gunny," Tony said. "You can take the petty officer, the teenager and the John Doe."

"Why thank you, Tony, for giving me more work," Ziva said sarcastically.

"Three bodies for you. Three bodies for me."

"Two crime scenes for you. Three crime scenes for me. Four, if you count the fact that Petty Officer Johnson was involved twice," Ziva pointed out.

"Fine, I'll switch. You can take the gunny and I'll take the petty officer."

"Thank you, Tony," Ziva said, smiling sweetly.

Tony was quiet for a few minutes, but before the worry they both felt could be expressed, he said, "First one to connect McGee to these murders wins."

"Wins what?"

"…I don't know. I'll think of something," Tony said, quickly.

"All right. I'm on you," Ziva said.

"What?"

"When one takes a bet…" she said. "Is that not what one says?"

"Oh! You're on."

"Ah, I see," Ziva answered and then began to look through the files.

--------------------------------------------------

Tim sat and looked forlornly at the Washington Monument. Perhaps he shouldn't have picked a monument built to a man who famously never told a lie. He hadn't told his parents yet. He hadn't told Sarah. He wanted to put off the inevitable for as long as humanly possible…besides, it would be better to wait and see what would happen to him before he told his parents he might be going to jail.

Would any of the team even speak for him anymore? Was his betrayal too complete for any measure of forgiveness? As the fears and worries crept back into his mind, Tim's head dropped lower and lower, away from the monument and toward the reflecting pool. There wasn't much snow yet in D.C., but it was cold enough that most tourists didn't want to sit around. They came, snapped and left, paying little attention to the crazy man sitting in the cold.

"Bad day?" a kind voice asked.

Tim lifted his head and saw a perfect stranger looking down at him. The woman was dressed in a furry parka and looked like she was just cutting through the Mall on her way to somewhere else. She was probably in her mid- to late fifties.

Tim considered whether or not it was worth answering. Why not? "I can't think of a worse one."

"Everything can only get better then," she said. Her voice had a slightly foreign accent to it, a very pleasant voice.

"I don't think it works like that, not for me."

"Well if it can't get worse, it can only get better, right?"

"No, I think, for me, it will just stay bad. Thanks though."

The woman, instead of moving on, sat down on the bench next to Tim.

"Aren't you cold?"

Tim thought about it. "Not really. Not yet."

"You're not really dressed to be depressed outdoors."

"It doesn't really matter now," he said. "I've pretty much ruined my whole life. A cold isn't really a problem in comparison."

"What could you have possibly done that would warrant that kind of declaration?"

"I can't really explain. It's part of an ongoing investigation. I just betrayed everything I thought defined who I am."

"That's a tall order for one day."

"I don't do anything small," Tim tried to joke, his face stretching into a painful grin.

The woman put a kind hand on Tim's shoulder. The simplicity of the gesture brought the repressed tears to his eyes.

"Don't you have friends to talk to?"

Tim sniffed and shook his head, trying to keep the tears from falling. "Not anymore."

"Are you sure of that?"

"Based on their expressions?" Tim took a deep breath. "I'm pretty sure."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that."

"Why?" Tim asked.

"Why what?"

"Why are you sorry? Why are you even talking to me?"

"That's easy. You're another human being and one who looks pretty down. I don't think anyone should be ignored or left to muddle through on their own."

"That's a nice outlook to have."

"You know…" she hesitated, then continued, "I am a complete stranger to you, and I cared enough to ask. You say that you have lost your friends. Perhaps you merely misplaced them for awhile. Give them a chance to say no. Really, what do you have to lose?"

Tim looked at her with tear-filled eyes and couldn't respond.

She smiled sympathetically at him and squeezed his shoulder once more. "Give it some thought, at least. …and things _will_ get better, eventually. They always do." Then, she stood and continued on her way, a straight confident stride across the Mall and out of sight.

Tim looked after her and then pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. Could he bear to call his friends?

----------------------------------------

"Here is something strange," Ziva said.

"Is it a connection to McGee?"

"Yes."

"Darn! Too slow," Tony said. "What is it?"

"Julie Robinson had an autographed copy of McGee's book."

"Really?" Tony got up and went over to Ziva's desk. "Where?"

Ziva brought up the appropriate crime scene photo. "There, open on her bedside table."

"What does that say?" Tony asked squinting at the small image. Ziva put it up on the plasma and they both stood up to look at it.

"For Julie. Keep up the good work. Thom E. Gemcity," Tony read.

"But McGee said that he did not know her," Ziva pointed out.

"I don't think he was lying, Ziva. I'll bet this is from a book-signing. We can double-check with her parents to see if they bought her the book."

"So, that means that I won, yes?" Ziva asked.

"I suppose," Tony allowed.

"So, what do I win, Tony?" Ziva asked slyly.

"You get to…uh…kiss McGee," Tony said.

"What?"

"I never specified."

"So…if _you_ had won, you would wish to kiss McGee as well?" she asked, her amusement obvious.

"No! That's not it at all!" Tony said…very quickly.

"I see," Ziva replied, grinning. "Should I tell McGee of this?"

"Only if you want to die, Ziva."

Gibbs slapped Tony on the head as he walked by. "_You'll_ want to die, DiNozzo, if you don't have something to tell me."

"Well, we don't have much yet, Boss, but Ziva found a copy of McGee's book in Julie Robinson's room," Tony said quickly, rubbing his head. He walked back to his computer and looked at his monitor, hoping for something else he could tell Gibbs…then, he saw it. It seemed impossible, but there it was. He brought it up on the plasma. "Look at this, Boss."

"What am I looking at, DiNozzo?"

"It's a photo from the decapitated couple. It was on the floor…by their... clothes."

"What about it?" Gibbs asked, trying to squint in a way that wouldn't be obvious.

"No, I see it, too," Ziva said peering at the photo. "Look who is at the table behind them in that restaurant, staring right at the camera."

"It's McGee, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Boss. Eating alone, how pitiful," Tony said, earning another whack.

"Keep at it. If there are two, there are probably more."

"Gibbs, this does not seem to be helping McGee's case at all. It is simply proving that he has seen all the victims before."

"We have to start somewhere, Ziva," Gibbs replied. "Since we know that McGee wasn't the murderer, we have to figure out how the real killer chose his victims…and unfortunately, McGee is the answer."

-------------------------------------------------------

Depressed, Tim put his phone away. Abby hadn't answered. Neither had Ducky. He had left them messages, but after that, he didn't dare call anyone else. Now, he shivered. It was getting dark and cold, unsurprising considering it was December. No one had called him and no one was answering him.

"I guess that's my answer," he said softly. "What do I do now?" The solution was not forthcoming. No other kind-hearted strangers offering advice. Tim felt so alone, but it was worse knowing that it was his own fault. He had brought all this on himself. He finally left the bench and made the trek back to his car. There was nothing left to do but go home…alone.

----------------------------------------------

During a brief lull, Tony decided to quickly check his email. When he saw the message, he peeked around his monitor.

"Ziva, check your email."

"Why, Tony?" she sounded annoyed. "What drivel have you sent me this time?"

"Not me. McGee. He sent us...an apology."

"Oh." Ziva did as he asked and read it silently. "This is not good, Tony."

"Really? I never would have guessed that."

"He thinks we have given up on him."

"Yeah..."

--------------------------------------------------------

"There's something else on these photos, Gibbs," Abby reported a when Gibbs came into the lab and found it bathed in UV light, the little skulls on Abby's shirt glowing brightly.

"What?" he asked, really hoping that it would be helpful.

"More words, visible in ultraviolet light, but they don't fit together in the same order. I'm trying to rearrange them now." Abby started to move the glowing letters around on the counter. "The writing is smaller and it fits together…like…like…" She continued to manipulate the photos, trying first one way, then another. "…like…[ithis[/i!" she announced proudly as the five photos, stacked in a pyramid revealed another quotation.

"Even I know this one, Gibbs," she said. "It's from _Apocalypse Now_."

Gibbs squinted at the small glowing sentences and Abby smirked before reading the quotation out loud. "I've seen horrors... horrors that you've seen. But you have no right to call me a murderer. You have a right to kill me. You have a right to do that... but you have no right to judge me. It's impossible for words to describe what is necessary to those who do not know what horror means. Horror. Horror has a face... and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and moral terror are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies."

"Why would we have another movie line?" Gibbs said slowly. "There's not another murder…" he paused. "…yet…"

"He's giving us a warning?" Abby said. "Why? Who?"

Gibbs looked at Abby, a terrible thought taking shape in his mind. "The one person who has been the focus of every part of this killing spree."

Abby's eyes widened perceptibly as she understood. Her mouth shaped the word _no_, but no sound came out of her mouth. She spun around and ran into her office. She picked up her cell phone and began to dial, but stopped when she saw she had a message. She looked up at Gibbs.

"It's from Tim," she said weakly and accessed her voicemail.

_"Abby…it's me…Tim… I never got the chance to apologize for yelling at you with everything that happened. It was wrong of me…and I'm sorry. I'm sorry for a lot of things."_ Tim stopped and Abby heard him clear his throat. _"Right now…I can't see a good way for this to end, but I wanted to at least let you know that I'm sorry…for being such an idiot. …I…I guess…that's it. Bye."_

"He said good-bye," Abby said, tears running down her cheeks. She dialed Tim's phone as quickly as she could.

_"Hello, you've reached Timothy McGee. I'm not available at the moment. Please leave a message and I'll get back to you."_

"He's not answering." Abby looked at Gibbs again. "Are you sure that's what this means?"

"No," Gibbs admitted. "But it makes too much sense to ignore." He strode out of the lab, heading up to the bullpen. He wished now that he hadn't told Tim to leave. If he had made him stay at NCIS, they would know that he was safe. This not knowing was much harder to deal with.

------------------------------------------------------

"Dr. Mallard, your phone is beeping," Jimmy reported as the two of them prepared to leave.

"So it is," Ducky said in surprise. "Oh, I left it on silent this morning." He looked at his missed calls. "Hmm…" He went into his voicemail and listened to the soft, tortured voice of Tim.

"_Ducky…I'd hoped you would answer. I'd hoped that_ someone _would answer. So much for that. …I told you I couldn't do it. I did, but I had thought that something good would come of it. So far, I can't see any light at the end of the tunnel. I'm sorry I couldn't tell you before, that I couldn't tell anyone what was so important for them to know. …I'm not a killer, Ducky. I wish that I could take it all back. I can't…that's something I really cannot do. I'm sorry. Bye._"

"Oh, dear." Ducky tried to call back, but there was no answer, only Tim's message.

"What is it, Dr. Mallard?" Jimmy asked.

"A real problem, Mr. Palmer," Ducky answered in concern.

------------------------------------------------------------

Tim decided to turn off his phone. If he wasn't going to get any calls, he didn't want to know it. If his phone was off, at least he could pretend that he _might_ be missing someone trying to contact him. As he drove back to his apartment, he couldn't help but think about everything that he had done wrong during the course of the investigation. There were a lot of things. As he pulled into his parking space, he knew he didn't even want to go into his apartment. There were a lot of places he'd rather be, but this would be the easiest place for someone to find him…if they wanted to, of course. He slowly mounted the steps. The closer he got to his door, the worse he felt. Tim stopped just short of putting the key in the lock and rested his head on the door. For a moment, he thought he'd just turn around and go…somewhere else. Instead, he sighed and let himself inside, wishing that he could wake up and have it all be a dream.

-------------------------------------------------

"Let's go!" Gibbs said as he walked past Tony and Ziva.

"Where to, Boss?" Tony asked, moving automatically in response to the command.

"McGee's place."

"Are we going to arrest him, Gibbs?" Ziva asked, also instinctively gathering her gear.

"No."

"Then, why are we going?" she asked.

"Hopefully, for no reason."

Tony hesitated and then asked, "And if there is a reason?"

"Then, we're going to keep McGee from becoming the next victim."

--------------------------------------------------

… Tim took a step toward his bedroom and turned his head in time to see the fist, covered by brass knuckles, fly at his face. As he slowly slid down the wall, he looked up at his attacker, a familiar face loomed over him.

The man spoke, quoting another line, another movie, and even through the haze of enveloping unconsciousness, Tim was horrified. "I had a bad dream." Tim's eyes started to close. "Only there's no one to tell me that it's over. This one will never be over...not for me...not for you..."


	18. Chapter 18

**Chapter 18**

_Present_…

There was water running, a rushing torrent somewhere close by. The sound was the first thing to penetrate the foggy haze that had taken over Tim's brain with the second fist to his face. He tried to move but stopped when he realized that he had been restrained. He tried to open his eyes, but neither one would obey his commands. The water continued to pour into some sort of receptacle nearby. Since his eyes were not opening, he tried to get his other senses working. He could hear the water, but that covered up any other sound that might be around. There was a musty smell in the air, stale as if wherever he was had been closed up for a long time. Touch…what was he touching? He shivered and realized that he couldn't feel the presence of clothing on his body. The floor was cold…tile. A bathroom? Where? This definitely wasn't his own apartment. His legs were on what must be a bathmat, but the rest of him was laying on the cold tile floor. The tiles were mostly small squares. He could feel them on his shoulders, on his chest, on his face. There were some larger tiles as well…one was currently making an imprint on his cheek.

_Okay, let's try the eyes again,_ he thought and tried to force his lids to raise. The right lid was more swollen than it had been the last time he tried to open his eyes, but the left eye opened…and saw the lovely blue tiles (stamped with small white flowers), stretching out to infinity…no, not to infinity, just to the wall. But _was_ that a wall? It didn't have the look of a normal wall. He decided that movement might just be necessary.

Tim lifted his head. It felt like it weighed a ton and he groaned a little.

"Awake again, Agent McGee?"

The voice penetrated the fog and the sound of rushing water and Tim moved his head enough to see a pair of boots looming in his vision. He swallowed and then let his head sink back to the floor without answering.

A painful kick to the gut kept Tim from blacking out, although his stomach protested the treatment by turning itself inside out. Tim couldn't move himself out of the way and when he finished vomiting, he had no choice but to either hold his head up in the air or put his face into the puke currently gracing the formerly blue-tiled floor.

"Now, now, Agent McGee, we can't have you blacking out. Punishment is not very effective if the one being punished cannot feel it."

Tim coughed and gagged at the smell of his own regurgitation. "Why…why am I being punished? What did I do to you?" Tim was suddenly being lifted into the air by his arm and he dangled limply from his captor's grip. He was brought face to face with him, much like when Gibbs got really angry at him.

"You asked the wrong questions, Agent McGee. You let me get away with it," he said.

"With what?"

"Why did you never ask me about the affair? I know you knew about it because that Agent DiNozzo made all sorts of comments. You even checked with her lover. Why didn't you ever confront me?"

Tim's brain was still sluggish and he tried to keep up with the trend of the conversation. He just didn't understand.

"Y-you couldn't have done anything. You were in Afghanistan," Tim mumbled, trying to put his feet beneath him. They couldn't find a purchase on the newly-decorated floor. He sagged again. "I-I think…maybe…the man who…"

He sneered. "_You_ didn't find him. _I _found him. _I_ punished him. He did what I asked, even when I wanted him to fail."

"What?" Tim asked. In spite of his confusion, a measure of understanding was coming into his head, but it wasn't really helping make sense of the information being thrown at him. "Fail?"

Tim fell to the floor when his captor released him. His arm was bruised and smeared with vomit.

"You see, Agent McGee?" the man raged. "You are incompetent, unable to see the truth, even when it's right in your face!"

"What…truth?" Tim asked, a little winded from his fall.

"_I killed my wife_!" he shouted. "_I killed Joan and you never found out_!"

"No," Tim said, sure now that Robert must be crazy. "No, we checked. You were in Afghanistan at the time. You were even out in the field. Everyone verified it."

Lt. Robert Smith kicked Tim again, completely infuriated by the answer he received. "You aren't getting it, Agent McGee! I _hired_ someone! The man I killed was the man who killed my wife…on _my_ instructions!"

"Why?" Tim asked, gritting his teeth to hold back a scream.

Smith dropped to his knees in front of Tim and grabbed Tim's shoulders, pulling him off the ground again. Tim saw the insanity in his eyes and began to fear what was coming even more than he had before.

"She _betrayed_ me, Agent McGee. Betrayal deserves punishment. If I had betrayed my country, I would have been executed for it…and rightfully so. I took oaths to protect my country. When Joan and I got married, we pledged fidelity to each other." Smith looked hurt as well as insane. "If she didn't love me anymore, she should have _divorced_ me! There's no reason to betray me, to break her promises to me."

"If you wanted her dead…" Tim began, but stopped as Smith threw him to the floor again.

"I _didn't_ want her dead!"

"Then, why…" Tim panted.

"I told you, Agent McGee, punishment! That's why _you're_ here. I should not have been able to get away with it."

"Then…why didn't you just confess?" Tim asked.

"It's not my job to reveal myself! It's your job to find me out! And you _failed_! You couldn't even find the man who did it! Failure requires punishment!"

"What about the people you killed?"

"Their deaths are your fault, Agent McGee," Smith said, his voice dropping to a whisper, cold and menacing.

"I didn't even know them," Tim protested, but a cold feeling that had nothing to do with the tile floor washed over him.

"On the contrary, you have a connection to every one of them."

"No. I would have remembered," Tim said, trying to deny what he was afraid was true.

Smith's mouth widened in a cruel smile. "You couldn't even figure out who killed Joan Smith. How can you think that you're competent enough to remember everything that happened?"

Tim seemed to wilt at the words. His capitulation seemed to give Smith a thrill and he laughed.

"Petty Officer Johnson was on duty at Norfolk during a case you worked last year. You tripped over Sergeant Billings and his mistress at a restaurant six months ago. You signed a book for Julie Robinson, and Rasmussen? Well, you shook his hand once before he went AWOL."

Tim died inside. These people really _had_ died because of him…simply because he existed. He closed his eye as the guilt that had been so much with him over the last month swelled and twisted now-empty stomach.

"That's right, Agent McGee. They're dead because of you."

----------------------------------------------------

It seemed to take hours to get to Tim's apartment. Every so often, Tony dialed Tim's number and listened to it ring unanswered. He didn't say anything, but he was hoping that, just once, he would get an answer.

The ringing of Gibbs' phone made everyone jump.

"What?" Gibbs said, tersely.

"Jethro, I received a message from Timothy."

Gibbs felt a woosh of relief. "When, Duck?"

"Oh, it's been a couple of hours now. My phone was on silent and I missed his call. I am worried about the message he left me."

The feeling of relief was gone as quickly as it had come. "Why?"

"He seems rather without hope and he feels that we have all abandoned him."

"At the moment, Ducky, I have bigger problems."

"Really?"

"I think McGee is going to be the next murder victim."

Ducky didn't answer.

"Ducky, where are you?"

"I was just about to leave."

"Go up to Abby's lab and see if you can get anything out of the evidence McGee collected."

"I will, but if you're wrong, Jethro, I'd also be prepared for the alternative."

"I'll keep that in mind," Gibbs said but didn't elaborate. His gut was telling him that Tim was in trouble and at the moment, Tony and Ziva didn't need to think about the possibility of Tim killing himself, just of him getting killed.

---------------------------------------------------------------

"Wh-why did you _kill_ them? They didn't do anything wrong!" Tim said, still horrified.

"In times of war, sacrifices must be made."

Tim looked at the man he'd been tormented by for two years, the man he'd agreed with and pitied. He couldn't believe what was coming out of his mouth.

"Those people weren't at war! Julie Robinson was a teenager! She hadn't even graduated from _high school_!" Tim said, somehow finding the strength to shout at Smith.

Implacable, Smith ignored him. "I made sure their deaths were quick. You, on the other hand, deserve no such consideration." He stood and walked out of the bathroom, leaving Tim alone, naked on the floor.

Tim lay motionless for a moment. _I deserve this. I should just let it happen,_ he thought miserably. _Everything I've done for the last two years has led to this moment_. He thought that, but then, he realized that he couldn't. He couldn't just allow this lunatic to kill him. He had to do something. Tim rolled over onto his stomach and gagged at the smell, but he forced himself to focus on the task at hand. He pushed his knees to the floor and then leaned against the wall and forced himself into an upright position. Normally, he would be extremely embarrassed by the fact that he was stark naked, but his desperation to get out took precedence over his desire for modesty. He was trying to figure out how to get to his feet without slipping and killing himself when a hand wrapped around his neck and pulled him all the way up. With his hands bound, he couldn't try to ease the pressure and he felt his airway close off.

"Going somewhere, Agent McGee?" Smith whispered in his ear. "I don't think so." The pressure increase and Tim jerked involuntarily against the arm slowly suffocating him. Spots flashed in his vision. Then, just as suddenly as he had been choked, the pressure disappeared and Tim fell to the floor once again. This time, he didn't even care that he was lying in his own vomit, that it stank, that he was covered in it. All he cared about was the fact that he could breathe.

Quickly, Smith sliced the cords off Tim's wrists, freeing his arms to flop limply to the floor. Then, while Tim was still trying to renew his supply of oxygen, Smith flipped one of Tim's arms over. He quickly found a vein and injected…something into his blood stream.

"Do you remember the movie, Agent McGee?" Smith asked. "I hadn't seen it before your Agent DiNozzo mentioned it. He was actually close. As boorish, idiotic and lewd as he was, he managed to hit on the right answer. Harrison Ford did it wrong. He didn't do a good enough job. The drug he picked was didn't last long enough."

Tim tried to get up but found that his arms and legs would not respond to his commands. He managed to move his eyes up to Smith again.

"It's called Vecuronium. It's a muscle relaxant. Works within a minute." He smiled. "It only lasts about an hour at the dosage I gave you." He leaned over Tim's motionless body and turned off the water. "Of course, you'll be dead before then; so it really doesn't matter, does it."

He leaned back and nudged Tim with his foot. Tim felt it, but he couldn't react. He could only lay there, his face on the floor.

----------------------------------------------------

The door to Tim's apartment was ajar. His keys dangled in the lock. Tony and Ziva looked at each other and burst inside, shouting, "Federal agents!" as they ran into Tim's living room. No one was there.

As they cleared the apartment, Tony found Tim's gun lying on the floor. Ziva found blood. But neither one of them found Tim.

"He's not here," Tony said.

"He was," Gibbs said and then growled as his phone rang again. "This had better be important."

"Did you find him, Gibbs?" Abby's breathless voice came over the phone.

"No."

There was a soft exhalation and Gibbs couldn't decide whether it was relief or despair.

"Do you have something, Abby?"

"There's another image on the other side of the photos. Just like the quote. It's in UV."

"What is it?"

"It's Tim dying," Abby said, and he could hear the tears. "I'm trying to break through the manipulation, but I haven't been able to so far."

Then, Gibbs heard an exclamation. "Abigail! I need you to enhance this!"

"Hold on a second, Gibbs," Abby said and he heard her set the phone down.

Gibbs watched as Tony and Ziva combed the apartment, looking for a clue that would lead them to Tim. He could hear the muffled conversation going on over the line.

"Here, this area here, Abigail."

"What about it, Ducky?"

"Remember: this is a man who _wants_ us to know. He has left all the clues for us to find him in the evidence."

"I'm not seeing it, Ducky."

"That's because you're not thinking, my dear. I understand your fear, I truly do, but right now, you must be a scientist, not a friend. _Look_!"

There was silence. Tony and Ziva had gone to talk to Tim's neighbors. As he waited, Gibbs walked over to where Tim's writing desk. He saw the traces of fingerprint dust there. He looked around the room. Evidences of Tim's personality were readily apparent to those who wanted to look for them. It was easy to look at the computer, the spare parts, even the typewriter and records and assume that was all that made up Timothy McGee. However, the organization, the carefully ordered books and records…those also said something about Tim. This chaos, this strange sequence of events…the way Tim had handled the chaos, the way he had reacted, those were also insights into his character. Insights that most of them had simply taken for granted.

"I see it! I see it, Ducky!"

"As do I. Well done!"

Then, Abby's voice was right in his ear, giving him directions and yelling at him to hurry. She didn't need to tell him twice. He shouted at Tony and Ziva and they ran down to the car without a second's hesitation.

-----------------------------------------------------

"I thought about making it look like a suicide, you know, Agent McGee. I could have done so easily. But I think this is better. You will be discovered here and you'll be dead. Naked, covered in your own bile and dead," Smith said as he pushed Tim's face across the floor, a gleeful look on his face. Tim didn't react. He couldn't…but he heard. He knew now what was going to happen to him. He was going to die like Joan Smith had, only worse because he couldn't even fight. He would lay in the bathtub and drown. There was no way out of this one. Only his eyes showed any life and they were full of panic and fear.

"This is the end of the road for both of us, Agent McGee. I can't get justice from NCIS, but I can get justice from myself. Everyone will be punished for this crime who deserves to be."

The words brought Tim no comfort. They just underlined the sheer hopelessness of the situation. No matter what happened, he would die because Smith didn't care about getting out alive. He wanted both of them dead.


	19. Chapter 19

**Chapter 19**

"Where are we going?" Tony asked.

Gibbs shook his head in disbelief. "Abby found a message from the killer. It had an address. Ducky said that he wants to be found…for whatever reason."

"Where was the message?"

"Written in some sort of special ink on the final photo." He hesitated and then continued, "It also had an impression or something of McGee being killed."

"Why McGee?" Ziva asked.

"I wish I knew," Gibbs said.

-----------------------------------------------------

Smith loomed over Tim's body. He seemed almost gleeful now that the final moment was drawing near.

"I was going to just drop you into the tub and leave it at that, but I think I have a better way. My torment lasted two years. I can't let you die so easily as to drown in a few minutes." He disappeared from Tim's view and then the sound of water draining reached his ears. "Only half full. I'll even put you at the shallow end, Agent McGee. Then, you can feel the water getting closer and closer to your face. 'Horror and mortal terror are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies,' he quoted. "I've made them my friends, Agent McGee. But I can tell that they are _your_ enemies, and I hope you are afraid." He leaned away again and the draining sound stopped. Then, Tim felt himself being lifted. His head fell backward and he got a glimpse of the door to a bedroom before being placed in the cold water, his head resting against the back end of the bathtub.

_No! No! I don't want to die like this! Help!_ Tim screamed in his head. No sound escaped from his lips and his body did not respond to his desperation. _Help_!

--------------------------------------------------------

"What is this place?" Tony asked. "Let me see the address." He took the paper from Ziva who had snatched it from Gibbs. "Oh. I recognize this."

"What?" Ziva turned around in her seat.

"When I reread the Smith case file. This was Joan Smith's family home. She inherited it when her parents died and Robert Smith got it when it she died. She and her…lover had their clandestine meetings here."

"_Clandestine_?" Ziva asked, in amusement.

"Yes," Tony grinned, but then sobered quickly as the implications of this location hit home. "If we're headed to that house…"

"Then, Robert Smith is the killer," Ziva finished.

"Why would he be hanging around here? He's supposed to have deserted somewhere, not skulking in the shadows of the very place he deserted from."

"No, it does make sense, Tony," Ziva said. "He inherited all that money from his wife as well as the house, and he has had two years to plan."

"Just for revenge..." Tony said shaking his head.

"People have killed for less," Ziva reminded him. "He will not be gentle with McGee."

"Why do you say that, Ziva?" Gibbs asked as he drove. The speed of the car increased.

"We read the emails he sent to him. They are cruel, and he wished to cause pain. If he is the one who has done all this, he will want to hurt McGee as much as possible."

"How did this happen?" Tony asked. "How in the world does a guy go from being a decorated SEAL to a psychotic killer?"

"How does any serial killer get started, Tony?" Ziva asked. "If we knew that, we might be able to prevent it."

"I just hope we're not too late already."

_Amen_, Gibbs thought and pressed the gas pedal nearly to the floor.

---------------------------------------------------------------

In his mind, Tim was shrieking. He was trying with all his might to get his muscles to move. The water was at his chin and the ripples from the continual influx brushed against his lips. Smith had watched the water for a while, but then had left Tim alone. How long _had_ it been?

_I don't want to die!_ Tim thought and was surprised that he meant it. Even with all that had happened, with all he had done, with all that he felt, he didn't want to die. He wished it had never happened, but he didn't want his life to end…and definitely not like this. _Let me out! Let me out!_

…The water was at his lips now. The small ripples tippled some into his mouth. It trickled down his throat. If he had been able to, he would have been coughing. As it was the water was free to go anywhere within his body and he could do nothing to stop it. _No!_

"It's taking too long, I think," Smith said, suddenly in the bathroom again. He leaned over and increased the water flow. "In case your friends get here, I have to be sure they don't get to you in time. That would change everything. I'm going to go and prepare the welcome mat. How's the water, Agent McGee?" He laughed maniacally as he left the bathroom once more.

…The water reached Tim's ears and all he could hear was the water. It was a nice sound. He often listened to it. Only last month, he had put his ear to a faucet and listened to the water to calm himself down. Now, however, the sound of the water signified his approaching death…an eternal calm, he supposed.

…The water was at his nose. Too much was going down his throat and he could no longer breathe at all. _I'm going to die. It's too late. No one can save me now._ His last conscious thought was _I wish I could have apologized to everyone in person_. Then, the darkness swam in front of his vision and he abandoned himself to the roaring of the water.

---------------------------------------------------------

"This is it!" Tony shouted as Gibbs sped up the drive and then slammed on the brakes. The three of them jumped out of the car and ran toward the front door.

Ziva took a step and then stopped and held back the other two. "Wait!"

"What, Ziva?" Tony asked impatiently.

"I have just touched a trip wire," she said calmly. "There may be others."

Gibbs knelt at her feet. Sure enough. The thin wire was stretched taut with the pressure of Ziva's leg against it. The wire snaked over to the side of the house. Gibbs, as quickly as he dared, followed it around and found that it triggered an alarm…but it didn't appear that there was any sort of boobytrap beyond that.

"Move, Ziva," he said.

She did and then dove to the ground as bullets began to fly. She and Tony took refuge behind the hedge lining the front walk while Gibbs was shielded by the house itself.

"Robert Smith! Federal agents! Come out with your hands up and no one has to get hurt!" Tony shouted.

"On the contrary, Agent DiNozzo, someone _does_ have to get hurt. You're too late anyway. You can't change what I've done. The past, as I know…and now Agent McGee knows, is over and done with. Nothing we wish will change it."

Gibbs made eye contact with Tony and Ziva from his hiding place. He jerked his head around to the back of the house. They nodded briefly.

"Why, Lieutenant? Why is that necessary?" Ziva asked.

"Officer David, you of all people should know that mistakes must be punished. No one breaks a law or fails without consequences."

"What have _you_ done?"

"I killed my wife," he said, calmly. "The penalty for murder, premeditated as mine was, even if I didn't actually do the crime, is death. I also killed five…" he laughed and corrected himself, "…or rather _six_ other people."

"What did McGee do to deserve death?" Ziva asked.

"He failed, Officer David. Failure is not an option. His failure caused a miscarriage of justice."

Then, there was a flurry of activity in the front window. Gibbs had managed to get in the side door and was grappling with Smith. Tony and Ziva jumped up and ran inside as well. As they entered the front door, two shots rang out. They reached the living room just in time to see Gibbs pushing Smith off him, two red splotches spreading across his torso.

"Thank you, Agent Gibbs," he whispered, a thin stream of blood running out the corner of his mouth. "Justice is served…" His eyes closed.

They stared at the dead man for a few seconds and then they began to look for Tim. The house wasn't huge, but it was a fair size and they didn't know where to start. It was Tony who thought of going upstairs when he heard the water running. He got into the master bedroom and stopped short for just a moment. It was obviously the place where Smith had done all his planning. Photos of Tim and of all the victims lined the walls. A dual head display graced the vanity, and very strangely, a stack of DVDs rose from the floor beside the vanity and above the level of the monitors. Tony noticed all this in a second, but his attention was drawn to the water now seeping under the bathroom door and soaking the carpet. He ran to the door and turned the knob. It was locked. It took one bullet to the lock and one kick to get it open.

"Boss! Ziva! Get an ambulance!" he screamed.

All that could be seen of Tim was his hair, gently swaying in the motion of the water that poured over the sides of the bathtub. Tony nearly slipped in his rush to get to the tub. He saw that Tim's left eye was open and unseeing, that his arms were limply floating in the water, but he ignored those things and didn't think about how long Tim might have been in the water. Instead, he pulled Tim out of the water and dragged him into the bedroom. Ziva and Gibbs reached the bedroom as Tony began performing artificial respiration. Without a word being said, Ziva began CPR, allowing Tony to breathe for Tim and her to help his heart. Gibbs called 911 and then, he went into the bathroom to turn off the water. As he walked out, he noticed a syringe lying on the floor, near the doorway. He looked from it to Tim and nodded to himself. Then, he grabbed a towel from the rack and came out of the bathroom. Still without speaking, he placed it carefully over Tim's lower body. Ziva gave a small smile at the kind gesture. Tim might not appreciate it right now, but he would later…if there was a later.

Gibbs switched with Tony after a couple of minutes and Tony took the reprieve with mixed feelings. On the one hand, there was no question that he was feeling a little breathless, but on the other hand, he didn't want to be sitting there doing nothing while Tim's life was on the line.

It seemed like forever that he watched, and it began to seem like a hopeless case. _No, McGee won't die. He wouldn't dare…although he might want to die of embarrassment,_ Tony said to himself, grinning a little. Of all the ways that Tim might have picked to die, being naked, Tony was certain, would have been a long way down on the list…probably below something like being burned alive.

The sound of choking brought him out of his thoughts. Gibbs sat back and Ziva helped turn Tim onto his side as water came pouring out of his mouth. The choking was replaced with violent coughing and then Tim was gasping and coughing, water still trickling out of his mouth. His eye closed and he lay limply on his side, shivering slightly. Tony looked around for something to do and saw the blanket on the bed. He whipped it off and placed it over Tim's body. It wasn't very thick, but it would be better than the absolute nothing he had. Ziva was gently rubbing Tim's back as he continued to gasp for the air that had been denied him. Tony couldn't help but notice how little Tim was moving. The coughing shook his body, but his limbs seemed lifeless. Still, no one had spoken, not Tim, none of them.

Then, clumsily, Tim reached out a hand blindly. His eye was still closed and his breathing was more labored than was desirable, but he moved. Gibbs grasped the seeking hand.

"What is it, McGee?" he asked, finally breaking the silence.

Tim didn't answer other than to tighten his grip on Gibbs' hand. His shivering increased and Ziva began to rub his arms to help ease the chill.

"It is all right, McGee," Ziva said softly. "You will be fine."

Tim's mouth moved, but no sound came out. One eye opened lazily for a moment and then dragged shut again.

"What was that, McGee?" Tony asked and knelt down beside him to hear.

"Sorry…to be so much trouble," Tim whispered, opening his eye once more. His words were just barely audible and slurred together.

Tony looked at him and Tim smiled weakly.

"Let's just say that we're even, McGee. You saved my life. I saved yours."

Tim nodded slowly and coughed, letting his eye drift shut again. "Even though…?"

"Don't worry about it, McGee," Tony said quickly. "We'll work everything out.

They all heard the approach of the ambulance and Tony went down to direct them to the correct person. When they reached the bedroom, Tim was still holding Gibbs' hand in a death grip, but his eye was open again. He wasn't breathing very well, but he _was_ breathing on his own.

The paramedics took over, but Tim would not let go of Gibbs' hand; so Gibbs followed them out of the house, leaving Tony and Ziva to clear the scene.

--------------------------------------------------

Tim watched all of this happen through a foggy haze. The words people spoke seemed to come across a great wide chasm…one that was very cold. He was surprised to be so close anyway. He remembered dying…or so he had thought. Then, he had been brought back to the cold and the wet and it took some time to decide that he was happy with the fact. Once he had decided that he did indeed want to be alive, he focused on continuing to breathe and let the rest of his concerns fall to the side.

_Strange how easy it is to ignore breathing until you can't do it anymore,_ he thought. _I'll never take it for granted_ _again_. He felt a painful spasm in his chest as his lungs tried to expel all the fluid. He coughed and felt himself being moved. It was only then that he remembered he was naked. He felt some very welcome heat in his face, but noticed with relief that he was not on display at the moment. He dragged his one working eye open again and looked around. Gibbs was there…and, he realized, holding his hand. When had _that_ happened? Tim tried to focus on his surroundings. It didn't take very long as they were very small. Smaller than the bathroom he had been in before. _The bathroom! Smith! I have to tell them!_ Tim tried to sit up and felt someone holding him down.

"Stay put, McGee," he heard Gibbs say.

"Boss…" Tim tried to speak through the oxygen mask he now felt on his face. "Boss…Smith…"

"We got him, McGee," Gibbs said. "Stay down."

Tim felt so weak that staying down wasn't even something he could protest. That one effort toward actual movement had exhausted him. Still, he needed to get the information out. No more secrets.

"Smith…he…it was him. He killed…them…all…because of me," Tim gasped out.

"Quiet, McGee. We know."

"I'm sorry, Boss. I'm so sorry," Tim said, though his voice was muffled. "I didn't want this to happen."

Gibbs chuckled. "Well, I sure hope that you didn't want to die, McGee. Ducky thought you might."

Tim tried to push the oxygen mask out of the way so that he could talk more clearly. The EMT sighed and forced it back.

"Keep it on, please. You're not out of the woods yet."

Tim subsided, but looked at the EMT with annoyance.

"No…Boss. I didn't want…all that to…happen like it did. Those people…he killed them because…of me. I didn't want that."

"Look at me, McGee," Gibbs said clearly. Tim turned his head a bit so that he could see Gibbs completely. "It is not your fault that Smith cracked. It is not your fault that he chose those people to kill. It is not your fault that you couldn't find who killed his wife. None of that is your fault. Got it?"

"But…Boss…if I hadn't been so…so _stupid_…" Tim said and a tear fell from his eye.

"Yes, we might have found him sooner, but we might not have."

"Temperature is up to 95 degrees. We're almost to the hospital now," the EMT reported.

"Good," Gibbs said. "McGee, there will be consequences for what you did, but right now…" He stopped and looked at the tortured young man lying in front of him. He couldn't believe what had happened. Tim had been so close to drowning; it was amazing he was alive now. It was a relief that he was. "…right now, McGee, we're just glad you're alive."

Even through the mask, Gibbs could see the way Tim's mouth twisted. He was trying not to cry.

"I…I thought that maybe…" Tim couldn't finish his sentence.

"You thought that we didn't care?"

Tim nodded.

"McGee, you _are_ an idiot," Gibbs said and started to smile.

Tim grimaced and then smiled as well…albeit a bit hesitantly.

They arrived at the hospital and Gibbs finally regained the use of his hand as they took Tim into emergency care. Gibbs looked down at his hand, sighing a little as he flexed it. Even when Tim recovered, there were going to be problems. He wished it wasn't going to be like that, but it was. What Tim had done was not something that could just disappear. Tim knew that better than any of them. What he wanted to know was how he could manage to keep Tim from getting fired for it…because right then, he had no idea.


	20. Chapter 20

**Chapter 20**

_The roaring of the water echoed in his ears and he panicked. He couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He was so cold. People stood all around him and didn't help him. They watched as he drowned. All the while, the water poured over him. He panicked and struggled…_

Tim woke up with a start and realized that he was still alive. He had conked out in the emergency room, no doubt causing some momentary chaos to all those nice people who had been evaluating him. He began to experiment with his ability to move. However long he'd been out, the drug was gone from his system. Thank goodness. He still felt much too cold inspite of the thick blanket he felt laying on him. The cold water...the powerlessness of his situation... He shuddered as he remembered the feelings of...

"Tim?"

Tim opened his eyes, almost unable to believe the voice he was hearing. He smiled. "Hi, Abby."

Then, he was engulfed in a patented Abby-hug, hoping that she'd remember to let him breathe eventually.

"Oh, Tim, I was _so_ worried. First, that phone message. Then, the new quote. Then, the picture. Then, Gibbs called me."

"I'm all right, Abby…or I will be if you loosen your grip a little," Tim said and then coughed. Abby loosened her stranglehold but pulled Tim closer.

"I was so afraid that you were going to die, Tim," she said softly.

"So was I, Abby," Tim admitted. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For yelling at you. For all the dumb, idiotic things I've been doing and saying over the past month," he said with some bitterness.

"Tim, don't talk like that."

Tim pulled back and looked at her. "Has anyone said anything about…me? About what's going to happen?"

Abby's eyes shifted away from him and then back.

"Don't, Abby. Don't lie."

"I won't. No one has said anything to me. I don't know what's going to happen, Tim. I really don't."

"Would you have known…if you had the photos from the beginning, would you have known who did it?" Tim asked, afraid of the answer, but needing to know.

Abby gave him an exasperated smile. "You're asking me to tell you what _would_ have happened? I can't tell you that and you know it. I needed all five in order to get the picture of you being killed that I found. I needed all five for the complete quote, although I might have been able to figure it out sooner. The address was on the last photo. Why would we have figured out that it was a man who was supposed to be elsewhere without all that?"

Tim sighed, winced and coughed again. His lungs didn't like long drawn out sighs anymore. "I don't know, Abby. It's just that…I know that what I did was really dumb and…" he stopped and looked away. "…and I'm afraid…I'm afraid that Smith was right."

"Right about what?"

"He chose them because I had a small connection to them. He gave me the list. He told me that every person he killed, he chose because I met them. You were trying to find the reason? Well, it was me. He said it was my fault. And I'm afraid that it really was this time."

Abby turned his face back to hers. "No, Tim. Don't do this. Don't do this again. Everything that goes wrong in this world can't be your fault."

"But this time, Abby…"

"No," she interrupted him sternly. "_Not_ this time. Not _any_ time. Tim, you are _not_ a killer. The only reason Smith would have blamed you is because he thought it would hurt. And look at how well he's succeeding! Don't let him win!"

"This isn't a game, Abby," Tim said.

"No, it's not. It's much more important than that. It's your life!" Abby said. "You keep things to yourself and don't tell us. I know that but I don't understand why you do it. You let them eat you up inside until you can't help but let them out. _Why_?"

To her surprise, instead of getting angry like he had before, Tim just dropped his head. "I was ashamed," he said.

"Ashamed of what? Being human?"

Tim looked up again. "Is it human to break the law?"

"Maybe. But it's definitely human to make mistakes."

Tim just chuckled incredulously. "_Mistake_ is not the word for it. It's a _crime_, Abby! I withheld evidence …because…"

"Because you didn't trust us," she said without rancor.

"I trust you."

She smiled and shook her head. "If you did, Tim, you wouldn't have been afraid of what we would say. You wouldn't have assumed that we'd think the worst of you."

Tim reached out hesitantly and took her hand. He stared at her fingers as he spoke. "The thing is, Abby…_I _can't believe that I did it. I look back and I wonder what stranger possessed me and took those photographs. The worst part is that it _was_ me. I took them and then, I lied about it. I don't do that kind of thing, Abby. I can't for the life of me figure out what made me act that way. …and no one ever figured it out. Everyone tells me how bad I am at lying, but no one knew what I was doing…at the time when it mattered most, they didn't know."

"You _aren't_ very good at lying, Tim. Just because we could tell something was wrong, doesn't mean that we knew _what_ it was."

"I'm no better than Smith. I wanted to be caught, but I wouldn't let myself be caught. Why didn't I just tell someone?"

Abby sat down on the edge of the bed and drew one leg up to rest on the mattress. "You tell me, Tim. Why _didn't_ you just tell someone?"

Tim was silent, thinking. He was thinking logically about what he had done for the first time. "I tried. I was on the verge of telling Ducky once. I really wanted to tell you. I almost told Gibbs. But I couldn't get the words out. They stuck in my throat. It's…it's because of who I am."

"Meaning what, McGee?" Tim's head jerked up at the new voice. Gibbs was standing in the doorway, not looking angry, just inquisitive.

"I mean…" Tim began and couldn't seem to finish the sentence. Speaking to Abby was one thing. Gibbs was quite another. "I'm…people see me as a certain kind of person. Usually, it's how I see myself. I've never done something like this before. All I could think about was how disappointed you all would be and I couldn't bear to face you all. I felt like…like I had destroyed part of myself and all I could do was try to hide the hole in the hopes that…that it would somehow heal itself." His shoulders slumped. "I can't explain it. …What's going to happen to me, Boss?"

Gibbs looked into Tim's eyes. They were earnest and he didn't want to lie. He settled for a partial truth. "I don't know yet, McGee. I'm going to find out."

_Two days later…_

"You are telling me that McGee wilfully withheld evidence…over the course of a _month_? For the entire investigation?" Jenny sat at her desk, her emotions flipping back and forth between disbelief and pure fury.

"Yes, Director," Gibbs said. He was trying to be diplomatic, trying to smooth the very rough road Tim faced. "That's exactly what I'm saying."

"It's not that I _want_ this, Jethro, but you know that I have to do _something_." She stood up and walked around her desk. "How could he have been so…so…"

"…human?" Gibbs finished.

"Jethro," Jenny began.

"I'm not excusing him, Jen."

She raised her eyebrows.

"Not completely. _McGee_ isn't trying to excuse himself. In fact, I think he'd be relieved if you did throw the book at him."

"But?"

"But I think that's the worst thing that could happen."

"Worst for whom?"

"For everyone," Gibbs said firmly. "Face it, Jen. McGee's an asset, one that we can't afford to lose."

"Even when that 'asset' has committed a crime?"

"…Which he voluntarily confessed to. You should have seen it, Jen. Really. McGee did hide those photographs, but he didn't spoil them. He preserved them and processed them for fingerprints, as carefully as any other agent would have done. Abby found more on them, but he did nothing to tamper with them."

"So you say, Gibbs, but do you realize how bad this looks?"

"Yes, Jen, I do. McGee hid something because it implicated him and for some reason, he didn't think that we'd believe him. He thought that we'd jump to the obvious conclusion." Gibbs sighed. "For all the work he's done in the last four years, the justice system hasn't treated him very well."

"What are you hoping for, Jethro? I can't wave a magic wand and make this disappear. It would be wrong, and you know it. Besides, the federal agencies are under enough fire for opacity in investigations as it is."

"I'm not asking for that," Gibbs said.

Jenny looked at him carefully. There was none of Gibbs' usual annoying posturing. He was truly hoping for something. "Are you actually asking, Jethro?"

"Yes, I am."

"Then, what is it you are asking me?"

"I'm not asking for a miracle. I'm asking that you give him a chance."

"For what?"

"For redemption," Gibbs said simply. "There is no set penalty for withholding evidence. It is entirely up to the discretion of the judge and those involved in the case. There won't be a trial this time because the killer is dead. He confessed, not only to McGee, but also to Ziva, Tony and myself. We have all the evidence from his home. In reality, all the photographs did was help us find McGee before he died."

"And yet, those photographs, in Abby's hands, might have proved the key to finding Smith before he managed to kill five people."

"You'd have to ask Abby about that, but I don't think it would have helped us until it was too late anyway."

Jenny sighed.

Gibbs looked around the room as if making sure no one had snuck into the office while they were talking.

"Please, Jen…"

That got her attention, not that she'd been ignoring him before, but that one little word…

"…McGee doesn't deserve this, and you know it."

A half-smile played on Jenny's lips. "Why, Jethro, I didn't know that word was in your vocabulary. I can't promise you anything…but I'll do my best."

Gibbs nodded and turned toward the door. "That's all I ask." Then, he left.

Alone again, Jenny went back to her desk and began to pull up old cases, looking for precedent. Fines were fairly common punishments, but jail time was a clear possibility…if charges were filed. She leaned back in her chair, shaking her head. Everything Gibbs had said was right. Tim did [inot[/i deserve to go to jail. He _was_ a valuable asset to NCIS. She just didn't know how to satisfy the law and give Tim what he truly deserved at the same time.

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_The next morning…_

_Tim woke up crying. He'd had another nightmare about being paralyzed and it left him feeling so cold. Those wouldn't go away any time soon, he knew. I'm alive. That's the important thing_, he thought to himself. Then, he stretched and winced.

Even with bruised ribs and worn out lungs, the doctors had pronounced his survival as nothing less than miraculous and had discharged him the day before. He had lists of symptoms he should watch out for in case of pneumonia or a very serious problem called second drowning, painkillers for his bruised ribs, a renewed prescription for an H2 antagonist (there were signs of a second ulcer forming, no big surprise there), and warnings about exerting himself too much too soon ringing in his ears. His phone rang almost the moment he was out of bed and shuffling around in his slippers. He wasn't supposed to be called in to work yet…if he still had a job at least. Everyone had hedged on that score so far. Tim didn't doubt that he deserved to be fired, but he hoped he could do something to keep that from happening, even if it meant giving up a part of his job. The phone rang again. He sighed, coughed and walked over to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Agent McGee." It was not a question.

Tim blinked in surprise. "Is this Cynthia?"

"Yes, Agent McGee. I'm glad you recognized my voice," she said drily.

"What can I do for you?"

"Director Shephard asked me to set up a meeting. She has something she needs to discuss with you."

Tim's heart dropped like a stone down to his toes. "Sh-She does?"

"Yes. She is aware that you're still recuperating, but it is fairly important."

"I can…I can come in whenever she wants me to."

"Very good. She'll be expecting you at two."

"Two? Today?"

Surprisingly, Cynthia's voice sounded sympathetic rather than derogatory. "Agent McGee, wouldn't you rather just get it over with?"

Tim sighed in response. "Yes, I suppose you're right."

"Two o'clock?"

"Yes. I'll be there."

"Thank you, Agent McGee. I'm glad you're doing well."

"Physically…" Tim managed.

"Yes, well, we have to start somewhere, don't we?"

Tim laughed a little. "Yeah. I guess so. Thanks."

"Anytime. See you this afternoon."

"Yes. Bye." Tim hung up the phone and sank into a chair. He didn't want to go. He knew he needed to, but not so soon. "If not now, then, when?" he said aloud. He sighed once more and coughed again. _I sigh too much._

Tim stood and went into the bathroom to get himself ready…even if he didn't know what he was getting ready for.


	21. Chapter 21

**Chapter 21**

At 1:30, Tim stood staring at the elevator. Already, it had ascended twice without him. He didn't want to go up, but he knew he had to and was trying to screw up his courage to do so.

"Going up?" someone asked, giving him a strange look.

"Eventually," Tim said and tried to smile.

The person looked confused as the doors closed for a third time.

"You know, McGee, it's not going to get any easier if you keep standing there like a bump on a log," Tony said from behind him.

Tim jumped and grimaced. "Hi, Tony," he said without turning around.

"You supposed to be back already? You don't seem too stable," Tony remarked, coming up beside him.

"I'm not back. I have to meet with Director Shephard."

"Oh." Tony seemed momentarily taken aback, but he rallied quickly. "Well, that shouldn't be a big thing. When is your meeting?"

"At two." Tim didn't bother to disagree. It didn't make any difference what Tony said. He didn't make the decisions and based on what had happened the last time he'd gotten in trouble, he held very little hope that she'd be very understanding.

"Hey, you have a half an hour!"

"I don't want to be late," Tim started, but the elevator arrived again and Tony propelled him into it, ignoring his feeble protests. When the doors closed, Tim felt the awkward silence, but he simply stared at the wall, determined not to say anything that would bring on another batch of Tony's teasing. He didn't think he could take it today. He was, therefore, quite surprised when Tony leaned over and introduced Tim to Gibbs' "office."

"What are you doing, Tony?"

"Are you okay, McGee?" Tony asked, instead of answering.

"Why are you asking?"

"Because you look like crap, Probie."

"Thanks, Tony," Tim said with as much sarcasm as he could muster.

"I'm serious, McGee."

"I'm okay, Tony, really. I'll survive."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Tim said.

"Okay." Tony reached over to turn back on the elevator.

"Tony?"

"What?"

Tim stared steadfastly at the wall again. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For...for being such a jerk to you this last month. It was really uncalled for and I'm sorry."

Tony's hand fell from the switch. "I wasn't exactly being the picture of courtesy, you know."

"I know, but that's... just the way you are. I was _trying_ to be rude. I was trying make you annoyed enough that you'd leave me alone and not ask the questions you were supposed to ask." Tim shuffled awkwardly from foot to foot. "When I...thought I was dying, I remember wishing that I'd had the chance to apologize to everyone for what I did. I wanted to do it in person, and I regretted the fact that I would have to rely on the email I sent. Now, I...I have the chance to apologize...so...I'm sorry, Tony."

Tony looked over at Tim's stiff posture, his blank expression, his sheer discomfort...and he smiled. "No problem, Probie. Just don't do it again."

His words were rewarded with a tentative smile. "I might not have any other choice. That's what I think my meeting is about...whether or not I have a job still."

"You'll have a job, Probie. They won't fire you."

"I almost was fired for less once already."

"You won't be. Don't worry," Tony said and turned back on the elevator. It ascended in silence once more and the doors opened on the bullpen. Tony stepped off and looked back at Tim. "You'll be fine. Relax," he said grinning, as the doors closed again. "Deep breaths! In! Out!" Once the elevator had continued its ascent, he sobered.

"McGee is nervous?" Ziva asked from her desk.

"Freaked out would probably be a better term."

"He should be."

Tony turned around. "No, he shouldn't. He's already nearly died. How scary could Jenny be?"

"From his expression, I would dare say that he would prefer death to facing Director Shephard," Ziva answered.

Tony chuckled. "Yeah, I think you're right."

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"Agent McGee is here, Director Shephard," Cynthia said over the intercom.

"Already? He still has twenty minutes!" Jenny said.

"Should I tell him you're busy?"

Jenny sighed. "How does he seem to you?"

There was a soft laugh. "Par for the course, I'd say."

Jenny sighed again. She didn't want this anymore than Tim did, but she also knew as well as he did that procrastination wouldn't help matters...even if she still wasn't sure what she was going to do. "All right. Send him in."

"Yes, Director." Just before the intercom clicked off, Jenny heard Cynthia telling Tim how happy the director was to see him, and Jenny felt a brief desire to lock the door and not have to deal with the problem... again...seeing as this was the second time Tim would be in trouble for withholding evidence. The last time he had been angry and uncharacteristically assertive. She wondered what he would be like this time.

The door to the office opened slowly and then stopped for a moment before opening all the way and admitting her agent. Tim walked in and looked unsure of what to do. She gestured to one of the chairs in front of her desk and then looked down to gather her papers...

...and her thoughts. There was no bravado this time. He looked thoroughly beaten down, and not just physically. He had stitches on the right side of his face and a horrendous black eye. His complexion was still pale and he walked with the careful gait of one in pain. Worse than those physical manifestations, the expression in his eyes was one of total defeat. He obviously knew exactly what he had done. For a moment she wondered what caused the difference this time; then, it all came clear: last time, he had been defending his sister. This time...it was only himself. So, with this new understanding, what would she do? Tim, she could see, had clearly already decided to take whatever punishment was given, and that made a difference in how she proceeded. She didn't need to impress upon him how serious his offense was. He already knew that and he probably knew it better than she did. She took a deep breath and began.

"Agent McGee."

"Yes, Director?" Even his voice was resigned.

"You know why you're here?"

"Yes, Director." It was also hoarse and his breathing was too audible.

For the first time, she questioned her decision to bring him in. _No, he needs to explain him_self, she decided.

"I already have reports from your team, from Agent Gibbs, as well as from Dr. Mallard and Abigail Sciuto. I have their impressions, but I need to hear what happened from you."

"Yes, Director. I understand that," Tim said, quietly. He fell silent, and Jenny did nothing to rush him. He seemed to be trying to decide what to say. "I'm sorry, Director Shephard."

"For what, Agent McGee?"

Again, there was a pause. "It's been so hard to explain all this to _myself_, but it's _still_ not clear, not even to me. I know that what I've done is a crime. It is inexcusable and I wanted you to know right off that if you decide to file formal charges against me, I won't fight them." He seemed to run out of words for a moment and Jenny had to hold back a smile. Tim had stolen her lines.

"Thank you, Agent McGee. But, please, do try to explain your actions."

"Yes, ma'am." Tim paused for a third time. She understood now that his difficulty had as much to do with his feelings of guilt as it did with trying to find the right words. "I…I knew from the beginning that I wouldn't be able to hide what I did forever. I knew that taking the photos was wrong."

"Then, why did you?"

"I panicked, plain and simple. I saw the first photograph and it felt like my brain shut down. It had only been a couple of hours before that I had been sent the video of Petty Officer Johnson's murder. When I saw the photograph that showed me killing her…I panicked. How could I convince everyone that it hadn't been me? Tony had already called me out on my behavior in the Smith case. I had been acting strangely. I knew it and I knew that the others had noticed it as well."

"Then…" Jenny prompted after another long silence.

Tim flushed. "Then, when I saw the others…" he trailed off and looked at Jenny, a telling sheen in his eyes. "I don't know how to explain how it felt…seeing myself as a murderer. I kept telling myself that it was ridiculous, that there was no way I was the one doing it, but at the same time, I couldn't think how to prove it…and then, what with my communications with Smith and the guilt I was already feeling about taking the photos, I was afraid that it actually _was_ my fault…for not revealing what I had done."

"So, why didn't you tell anyone then?"

"It's not a reason, really…not a good one anyway, but I'd hoped that we'd find the real killer and then, it wouldn't matter. I told myself that it couldn't possibly help. It would only distract everyone…but really I knew that was dumb. In the end, I was forced to confess. I suppose I could, technically, have hidden the other photographs and no one would have known about them, but I didn't see the point of it…and the secrets were killing me. So, I gave them all to Abby…as I should have done from the start." He smiled then, almost in disbelief. "And that ended up saving my life. It doesn't seem fair, does it?"

"What doesn't?"

"That I finally came clean and instead of saving anyone else, I only saved myself." He looked at his hands, and at first, Jenny thought he was finished. She was about to speak when he looked up at her again, and this time, he met her eyes directly. "Director…" he hesitated, almost as if he wasn't sure he should say whatever words he had in mind.

"Go ahead, Agent McGee."

"Director…" he tried again. He swallowed and she could see that the tears were closer to the surface than they had been before. She really hoped that Tim wouldn't start crying. She was used to having agents who never revealed anything…and, although she probably shouldn't feel that way, she preferred it to having their emotions played out so obviously. "…you might disagree with what I'm about to say. I know the law would disagree. In the eyes of the law, the theft of evidence, even when I gave it back, is paramount. And I know that has to be the focus of your decision. …but…as I've been looking back at what I did and all the things that have happened this month…there's something I regret a whole lot more than the crime I committed."

"What is that, McGee?"

"Looking at everything the team did for me, looking at how Ducky, Abby, even Palmer were there for me…" His eyes shifted from her to the window and he spoke slowly, uncertainly. "I am ashamed of how I treated them."

"What do you mean?" Jenny asked. This was a surprise. No one had mentioned that Tim had been cruel in any way.

"I didn't trust them. I've known them for years now, and when it came down to the wire, I didn't trust them. I thought I had to do it all myself because no one would believe me. I thought that there was no way they would understand how I felt, what had happened. I let all the things that have frustrated me take precedence over all the things that they have done in support of me. There's no question that I was rude to them, especially to Tony and Abby, who were both just trying to help…but my lack of trust is worse. It's an insult to them, and if there's anything that I've done that truly warrants dismissal, that is it…because we're a team. We _have_ to rely on each other…but I didn't." Tim's eyes moved back to Jenny's face and she was glad that _she_ had so many years of hiding her emotions because she hadn't expected this.

Tim coughed and winced. Jenny inwardly winced in sympathy. Perhaps she _ha__d _been too eager to get this whole thing over with and called him in too soon. Still, he continued. "Director, I have put you in an untenable position. I know that, and I can't tell you how much I regret all my actions. If it would be easier for you, I could just resign." Jenny saw a tear hover and then slip down Tim's cheek, but his voice didn't tremble at all. "I don't _want_ to. I'm not going to pretend that's what I want to have happen. I _want_ to stay here. I _want_ to keep my job, but because of how much I respect this place and all the people in it, I _don't_ want to damage its reputation and I _don't_ want to make it difficult for you."

Jenny looked at Tim impassively. "I appreciate that, Agent McGee. Is there anything else you have to add?"

Tim nodded. "I guess I do…if you don't mind."

Jenny allowed herself to smile this time. "Of course not. I want to hear what you have to say. That's why you're here."

Tim smiled a little and then coughed again. "Sorry."

"You have license to cough, McGee."

"Okay." He coughed a few more times and then sat up straight again. "What I wanted to say is that it was never my intention to do these things. I know that's trite and perhaps meaningless. I dare say that Robert Smith didn't set out for Afghanistan thinking he'd become a serial killer. But even when I was hiding those photos, I did preserve them and I was trying my best to resolve the case. I didn't do it right. I fully acknowledge that, but it was never my intention to make it more difficult."

"Thank you, Agent McGee," Jenny said. "I don't want to make you worry for longer than is necessary. I will have my decision by tomorrow."

Tim looked pained, but he simply nodded. "Thank you, Director. Is that all?"

"Yes, Agent McGee. Get some rest. You look like you need it."

"I do. Tony already told me that I look like crap," he said and then stood carefully wincing at the required movements. Still, he said nothing in complaint. He walked out the door and left Jenny alone with her thoughts.

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"Hey, McGee! How did it go?" Tony shouted from below as Tim came out onto the balcony.

Tim just shrugged. "I don't know. She didn't tell me," he said softly.

"I can't hear you, Probie!"

Tim raised his voice as much as he could, but the effort was still a bit painful. _Tony should understand this more than anyone_, Tim thought wryly. "I don't know. She didn't tell me."

"She didn't tell you? Why not?"

"I don't know." Tim turned and headed to the elevator. He just wanted to go home and rest. He was so tired. He didn't notice Tony run to the elevator before he got there. He pushed the button and was shocked when Tony appeared as the doors opened. "Tony!"

"How did you get here, Probie?"

"I'm not allowed to drive with the medication I'm on. I took a cab."

"I'll give you a ride."

"Don't you have work to do?"

"Sure. It can wait. Do you really want to fork out money for a taxi when you could have a free, and above all, clean, ride?"

Tim was too tired to argue. "No, I don't. I'd be glad for a ride."

"Then, let's go, McGee, before Gibbs sees me."

Tim smiled tiredly and followed Tony. He'd be lucky to stay awake in the car with how drained he felt at the moment.

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Jenny leaned back in her chair and reviewed the conversation she'd just had with Tim. He was trying so hard to make it easy for her that he was making it difficult. Perhaps at the beginning of her tenure, she _would_ have simply let him resign. Now, though, she knew, as Gibbs had said, that it would be a bad idea. He was so determined to take it all on himself. He placed no blame on anyone. He had been so open and forthright…and so heartbreaking. Tim thought that he _deserved_ to be fired when she could see very clearly that he _didn't_.

However, of all that had been revealed during this interview, the most surprising had been Tim's declaration concerning his dealings with the team. It was also a home question for her. _Do I trust the people who work for me?_ And more germaine to the case at hand, did she trust Tim? Jenny picked up the various reports. Ducky's report, given in his role as a forensic psychologist, had been by far the most illuminating. Tim's uncertainty, his pain, his guilt…they were all there to see.

It seemed to Jenny that Tim had already been punished more than enough, by Robert Smith…but also by himself. She didn't want to punish him more, but she had to do something. Suddenly, she smiled to herself. It wasn't the only solution, but it might just be the best one. She leaned over and began writing.

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"Are you sure you're okay, McGee?"

Tim smiled. "Tony, I'm on very powerful medication. It makes me tired. I'm okay. I just need to sleep."

"You're sure?"

Tim laughed. "Tony, you're sounding like Abby."

"Thanks, Probie."

Tim unlocked his apartment door and turned back. "Tony, I'll be fine, but thanks. I do appreciate it."

Tony nodded. "Okay, McGee. Whatever you say. You need to get better fast, though."

"Why?"

"So I can stop being nice to you."

Tim let out a breathless laugh and then winced. "I'll do my best."

"See ya later, Probie."

"Bye, Tony." Tim shut his door and the smile faded. Jenny hadn't said what the result would be. She hadn't said much at all really. He had done most of the talking. He hated the delay and he hated more the idea of possibly losing his job. She was a lot like Gibbs that way, not giving any hint of what she was thinking. Tim walked into his bedroom and sank onto his bed. He was asleep in seconds.

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_He was alone, lying in the tub. He could feel the water getting closer and closer to his mouth. He was going to die…alone. He couldn't move. He couldn't scream for help. He was trapped in the prison of his own body…_

Tim woke up with a shout, feeling his whole body tense and feeling the pain from his heavy breathing. He struggled to calm down and looked around. It was dark, but he no idea of the time. He looked at his clock…_9 p.m._ He'd slept the day away.

The nightmare again. In a way, he felt as helpless now as he had in that bathtub…the waiting, the inability to do anything. Tim shuddered and felt the tears again. He had done well to keep them back during his interview, but now, alone…

_I don't want to be alone,_ he thought suddenly, and where he might have just tried to deal with it by himself before, he didn't want to do that. He pulled out his phone.

"Abby?" he asked tearfully when he heard her answer.

"What is it, Tim? Is something wrong?"

"Are…are you busy?"

"Not a bit. What's up?"

"I…I need a hug."

He could _hear_ her smiling. "Well, Tim, I thought you'd never ask. I'll be right over."

She hung up and, true to her word, she was at his door in half an hour. When she knocked, he opened the door and Abby hugged him… even before he could close the door.

"Thanks, Abby," Tim said.

"What happened?" Abby asked, her arms still around him.

"It's nothing really."

"What, Tim."

"I keep dreaming."

"About what?"

Tim felt the tears again. "About drowning."

Abby's arms tightened around his waist. "Oh, Tim."

"I can still feel the water. I was awake the whole time and I couldn't do anything about it. I just…I just had lay there and drown."

"What can I do, Tim?"

"I don't want to be alone."

"You want me to stay?"

"Just a for awhile."

"I can do that," she said, shrugging off the party she'd planned on attending. They'd understand. She led Tim back to his bed and pushed him down. "Just relax, Tim. I'll stay."

"Thanks, Abby," Tim said through his tears.

"Anytime."

Tim was asleep again within ten minutes, but Abby stayed and kept her arms around him. She would stay and keep the nightmares away.


	22. Chapter 22

**Chapter 22**

Tim woke up, feeling warm and safe…and a little squashed. He was calm for the first time in who knew how long. He wondered why. Then, he felt arms encircling him. He opened his eyes and moved his head just enough to see Abby asleep, her head leaning on his. She had stayed the whole night. Tim felt badly about that. It hadn't been his intention to force her to watch him sleep. In fact, he hadn't really planned on falling asleep at all. He had been so awake when Abby had come over, the fear and anxiety from his dream still all too real, but her comforting presence had calmed him so quickly that his medically-induced exhaustion had taken over.

"Abby?" he whispered. In his present position, he couldn't see his clock and he had no idea what time it was. "Abby?"

"Mmmm…what?" Abby shifted around a little but didn't open her eyes.

"Abby, what time is it?" Tim began to sit up, gently urging Abby into a sitting position and trying to disentangle himself from her arms. He was relieved when he finally caught a glimpse of his clock and saw that it was only six. Abby wouldn't be late because of him.

Abby released him and followed his gaze to the clock on the nightstand. "Six! I need to get ready!" She stood up quickly.

"I'm sorry, Abby. I didn't mean for you to stay the whole night," Tim said, following suit.

Abby was almost in the living room but stopped and turned around. "Stop apologizing, Tim. I'm a big girl. I can make my own decisions. Besides, your head is a nice pillow." She reached out and patted it gently.

Tim grinned. "Thank you. I'm glad to be of help."

Abby laughed. "You're not bad to look at either…at least when you don't have stitches."

Tim put his hand up to his face and gingerly fingered the stitches over his eye and his cheek. "Hey, it could have been worse. At least I didn't need reconstructive surgery."

Abby sobered a little and smiled more sympathetically. "You didn't deserve this, Tim. You know that, right?"

Tim avoided her eyes. He turned back to the bed and began to straighten the covers. He winced as he stretched his ribs. _Time for more painkillers_, he thought.

Abby grabbed his arm and turned him around. "You know that…right?"

Tim opened his mouth to answer and let out his breath in a rush.

"Tim?"

"I know it. I _do_. I just…I don't believe it." Tim felt his face again, remembering the pain that had accompanied each swipe.

"Tim…" Abby sounded frustrated.

"I told Director Shephard that I'd resign if she wanted me to," Tim said quickly.

"What? _Why_?"

Tim walked by Abby into the bathroom where the prescription bottles sat beside the sink. He knew Abby had followed him and he took his pills, trying to pretend he hadn't heard her.

"Why, Tim? Why would you do that?"

Tim sighed, winced and coughed again. He really needed to stop sighing. "Because I don't want cause more trouble than I already have."

"Tim…"

"Abby, you don't have to pretend. I know I screwed up. Everyone knows it. The least I can do is try and make it easier."

"By giving up?"

"No," Tim protested. "No. By not putting up a fight that would only drag NCIS through the mud. I'm trying to make up for what I did."

"Tim, I will _never_ understand your reasoning skills. You're so smart most of the time."

"But not now?"

"Never when it comes to yourself. I don't get how you can be so understanding of other people's mistakes and yet come down so hard on yourself."

"Abby…" Tim began.

"Hello, Tim! News flash! You're not perfect!"

"I know that," Tim said, feeling a little annoyed.

"I don't really think you do. You expect to get everything right every time…and yet you automatically assume that you haven't…and when you _do_ mess up, it's the end of the world and there's no possibility of forgiveness. When I've told you to loosen up, it's about more than having fun, it's having realistic expectations."

"Abby?"

"What, Tim?"

"You were right."

Abby furrowed her brow. "About what?"

"I didn't trust you guys. You were right. I figured that you wouldn't believe me. I avoided you all because I didn't trust you. I yelled at you because I didn't trust you." Tim saw the hurt in Abby's eyes. "I always thought I did. I always thought that I could rely on you and Gibbs and Ducky and even Tony and Ziva…but when it came right down to it…I didn't. I couldn't. I had to keep it to myself, even at the cost of my health…even at the cost of my friendships. Since I didn't trust you, how could I believe that you would trust me? That's the worst of what I've done, Abby."

Abby looked at him for a long time. "Do you trust us now?"

Tim met her gaze. "I wish I could just say yes without hesitation. I really do, but even now, even knowing what I know now, I don't know if I would have done things any differently. I _wish_ I had. I can't tell you how much, but I don't think that I could have changed what I did."

The standoff was broken by Tim's phone ringing. He eased past Abby and answered it.

"Agent McGee?"

"Good morning, Cynthia."

"Director Shephard needs to speak with you. She has made her decision."

"Oh…when?"

"Nine o'clock. Don't be early," she added, lightly.

Tim smiled at the thought. "I'll try not to be."

"Good." Cynthia hung up.

Tim did as well and looked back at Abby. She was still piercing him with a stare worthy of Gibbs.

"Do you know what happened after you left, Tim? After you showed us the photos?"

"No," Tim admitted. "No one ever mentioned it."

"Gibbs immediately tried to find the link between you and the case. Tony said that it couldn't be you. Ziva did as well. It didn't matter what the photos showed you doing. We all knew that it couldn't have been you. We knew that all you were guilty of was withholding evidence. And even that…you followed NCIS protocol in taking care of the evidence. You even processed them. I don't know what we have to do to show you that we trust you, Tim. We worked with you during the Benedict case, when Sarah was accused of murder, even when that psycho started killing characters from your book. What more does it _take_?"

_Respect…outside of those moments that I'm in trouble,_ Tim thought, but he knew that was a terrible way of thinking. "I don't know."

Abby sighed. "Do you need a ride?"

"Yes, if you don't mind."

"No. I don't. I just have to stop at my place first."

"Okay."

They left together, but with a strained silence between them.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Agent McGee, you're _very_ early," Cynthia commented when Tim entered the outer office at 8:30 a.m.

"Just don't tell her I'm here yet. I can wait."

"You could wait down at your desk."

Tim shook his head firmly. "Not until I know if it _is_ mine."

Cynthia watched as Tim sat stiffly across from her. She didn't really see him much. Most of the times he had come up to Jenny's office had been when he was in trouble for something. He always seemed nervous. This time, he seemed different. He wasn't nervous. He was…_guilty_. She had seen enough of people to tell that emotion. She wanted to tell him that he didn't need to worry. She knew what Jenny had decided. It wasn't a slap on the wrist, but he'd come out of it all right. However, that would _definitely_ be overstepping her bounds. As jobs went, this one wasn't too bad, and she'd like to keep it.

"Cynthia?"

"Yes, Agent McGee?" she said, keeping her eyes on her computer screen.

"Have you ever…have you ever _not_ trusted someone even when you knew that you could?"

That drew her eyes away from her computer. "What do you mean, Agent McGee?"

"Well…" Tim looked terribly uncomfortable at having instigated the conversation. "…never mind. Stupid question."

Cynthia cocked her head to the side and considered his question for a moment before answering. "Yes, I have."

Tim looked surprised that she had answered at all, but he asked, "Why?"

Cynthia smiled. "I guess I thought I knew better."

"Knew better than whom?"

"Than myself, I suppose. I knew I could trust them implicitly but I didn't want to admit it. Usually the issue comes up when something has gone wrong anyway, and who wants to admit that they've done something wrong? I told myself that they weren't _really_ trustworthy, that I couldn't _really_ believe that they'd only have my best interests at heart, but I _knew_ that I was lying to myself."

"Did they forgive you?"

"Yes. Eventually. The people who really care usually will."

"How did you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Get them to forgive you?"

"You can't _get_ them to forgive you, Agent McGee. It just happens…or not. I told them what I had done and waited for the 'I'm very disappointed in you' speech. It didn't come, not right then. Oh, it came up later, and I had to earn their trust back, but I did. It just took some time."

"Was it worth it?"

"Which part?" Cynthia asked, laughing. "The part where I messed up or the part where I confessed to it?"

"Both, I guess." Tim shrugged and tried to act like it didn't concern him, but Cynthia could see how much he had invested in this conversation. She supposed that he was asking her because he didn't dare ask anyone else. Secretaries could be like bartenders in certain circumstances…the comparison made her smile.

"I still wish I could go back and not make the same mistake, but I _did_ learn a valuable lesson from it. As for the confession? I've never regretted that part."

Tim nodded and fell silent. Cynthia smiled at him and then went back to work. He sat quietly for another ten minutes.

"How long did you feel guilty after you confessed?" he asked suddenly.

Cynthia looked at him. "Agent McGee, even back then, I understood…as you apparently do not… that guilt is something you can hold on to or something you can let go. You have to make the decision. It doesn't just go away. Guilt is something that can take root and fester if you let it. I wallowed for awhile, but once I realized that I had been forgiven, and worse that they _understood_ why I had done what I had done, I saw that I could stop beating myself up for it and try to do better."

Tim just nodded again and didn't respond. Another five minutes of silence was broken by another question.

"Who was it?"

"What?"

"Who was it that you didn't trust?"

Cynthia raised an eyebrow at him.

"You obviously already know what I'm talking about. I'm just curious."

She smiled and inclined her head in acknowledgment. "My parents. I was nineteen."

"That was the last time?"

"Now, did I say that, Agent McGee?"

Tim reddened.

"It's close enough to nine. I'll tell the Director you're here."

"Okay." Tim instantly looked worried again.

"Go right in, Agent McGee."

"Okay," Tim murmured and he stood. He looked better than yesterday, but still not up to full form. She watched him walk to the door, take a deep breath and turn the handle. She smiled after him. She wasn't a whole lot older than him, but Tim inspired a maternal feeling in her. _Mother would be so proud to know that I have those inclinations,_ she thought as she got back to work.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Sit down, Agent McGee," Jenny said as Tim came inside.

He looked at her curiously. She was acting so friendly this time. In fact, she wasn't even sitting at her desk. She was sitting in the comfy-looking chairs in front of her desk. She indicated a seat. He sat down and looked at her tensely.

"I've come to a decision, Agent McGee."

"Oh?" Tim asked, his voice hoarse. He cleared his throat and tried again. "I figured you had, Director Shephard."

She just looked at him sympathetically. "I have reviewed all the facts in the case, all of the reports, your own statement from yesterday. Let me first say that it was difficult to decide what to do. I would be well within my rights to fire you outright or even to press charges based on your actions."

"I-I know that, Director." Tim felt as though his heart had stopped beating.

"And _that_, Agent McGee, is one of the reasons that I am _not_ going to exercise _either_ of those rights."

Tim felt all the blood rush into his head and his heart started pumping again. "What?"

"Agent McGee, you made an egregious error in this case."

"Yes, I know."

"Considering the magnitude of the offense and the fact that it is not the first time, I cannot, in good conscience, allow you to get off scott-free."

"I would never have expected that, Director," Tim said quickly, trembling a little.

"I know, Agent McGee," she said gently. "You expected to be fired, didn't you."

"Y-Yes. I deserve it."

"No, you don't, Agent McGee. Your actions even in the midst of withholding evidence show your innate honesty. Dr. Mallard described your mental state during this case, supplemented by a short testimonial from his assistant, Mr. Palmer. Ms. Sciuto explained all the evidence and the fact that, even with the photographs, there may not have been the evidence needed to discover Smith's identity. Officer David and Agent DiNozzo both vouched for your work during the investigation and both of them reported on how the Smith case itself continued to affect you. Agent Gibbs explained how you revealed your offense and was impressed with your candor. You voluntarily confessed and have shown considerable remorse for your actions. You have also showed an uncommon willingness to accept punishment."

Tim's mouth was open, but no sound came out. He couldn't believe all the things she was saying…but he knew she wouldn't be lying to him. She was almost reading the words. This was coming from her official report. He wanted to beg her to just tell him what was going to happen. Instead, he sat there gaping like a fish and waited.

Jenny looked a little amused as she continued. "Agent McGee, it is, therefore, my decision that you should be suspended without pay for the period of one month. During that time, you will be required to undergo a psychological evaluation and whatever therapy is required based on your recent experiences. Following your return to active duty, you will be on a period of probation under the direction of Special Agent Gibbs for no less than two months. At the end of that time, Agent Gibbs will report to me on your performance. Should that report be satisfactory, you will be fully reinstated as a field agent at NCIS. Agent McGee, do you understand these elements as I have explained them to you?"

Tim's eyes were wide, and he knew he was not hiding his shock very well. Suspension for only a month…which he'd be spending recovering anyway? The psychological evaluation was also standard, although this would have the added element of addressing his actions as well as his experience with Smith. The probation was to be expected. He would have to toe the line…which he generally tried to do anyway.

"Agent McGee?"

Tim was still gaping. He closed his mouth and swallowed. "Y-Yes, I understand…are you sure?"

Jenny suppressed a smile. "Yes, Agent McGee. I am, after all, the one who wrote this up."

"O-Of course. It's just that…"

"Agent McGee," Jenny said, cutting him off. "I trust you. I trust you to do your best to overcome this period of your life. I trust you to _learn_ something from what has happened. I also trust you not to take advantage of my decision. Is my trust misplaced?"

"N-No, Director. I won't…" Tim stopped and had to start again. "I'll _try_ not to let you down. I'll do my best."

"I know you will, Agent McGee. That's why I am confident that three months from now, I will have no difficulty in reinstating you. Do you have any questions?"

"No, Director. Thank you, ma'am."

"That will be all then. You're dismissed."

Tim stood quickly and walked out of the office, a bewildered look on his face. There was so much to process…so much to say. He managed to smile at Cynthia as he walked past, their previous conversation running through his mind. She smiled back, seeming to understand his mental state. He walked to the elevator and got on, hardly noticing where he was going. When the doors opened, he was at Abby's lab. The music was blaring at full blast and he was not surprised to see her working. There was something he needed to tell her; so he stepped inside.

"Abby?" he shouted.

Abby turned around and looked at him, a strange expression on her face. She silently walked over and turned down her music.

"Abby…I trust you," he said. "I just hope that you can trust me again."

Still, she didn't speak. Instead, she walked up to him. Suddenly, she put her arms around him. "Oh, Tim. I never _stopped_ trusting you."

Tim hugged her back. He believed her.


	23. Chapter 23

**Chapter 23**

Tim looked at the buttons in the elevator. He was about to head back up to the bullpen so that he could leave, but he sent the elevator to another floor. He stepped out of the elevator and looked around a little hesitantly.

"Timothy, what brings you to my door?" Ducky asked cheerfully.

Tim edged into Autopsy. "Hi, Ducky. Are you busy?"

"Not at the moment. What can I do for you?"

"Nothing, really. I just wanted to say thanks."

Ducky smiled. "For what?"

"For whatever you put in the report you gave to Director Shephard."

He shook his head. "I only put the truth in that report, Timothy. Truth needs no thanks."

"Maybe not, but there's nothing that says it _shouldn't_ be thanked."

"True enough. So, what is the result of your meeting?"

Tim gave a small smile, still a little disbelieving. "I'm suspended without pay for a month. Plus, I'm required to undergo psychological evaluation and I'll be on probation for two months when I get back."

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Timothy."

"I'm not," Tim said firmly.

Ducky looked at him in surprise. "Really."

"Yes, really. I could have had it much, much worse."

"And I would be willing to bet that you would not have fought such a decision had it arisen."

"Of course not."

Ducky smiled again. "Timothy, you should try to remember that what happened is not the end of the world."

Tim's shoulders sagged a little. "People keep telling me that, but, Ducky, it _was_ for the six people who died." He shook his head before Ducky could answer. "No, I know that it's not all my fault. It's a just defect in my wiring."

"As long as you keep that in mind, you should be fine…defective wiring or not."

"Thanks, Ducky. For trying to help me and trying to make me feel better. For everything."

"No need to thank me, but I will say 'you're welcome' if only to make you feel better."

Tim grinned. "It does. I guess…I'll see you in a month, Ducky."

"Feel free to drop by before that, Timothy."

"I'll try…to feel free, that is," Tim said and smiled as he left.

"That's better than nothing, I suppose," Ducky said to himself.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim rode the elevator up to the bullpen, feeling a bit nervous. Gibbs surely knew what had happened. Jenny would have told him…wouldn't she? Tony and Ziva…what would they think? What would they _do_? The doors opened and there they all were, sitting at their desks, working. There was no way he could avoid them seeing him as he walked to the other elevator. He straightened his shoulders, determined not to reveal his own inner turmoil as he had to everyone else.

"Hey, McGee," Tony said, seeing him right away. "How'd it go?"

Tim forced himself to shrug. "Fine."

"What did the director have to say?" Ziva asked.

Tim looked at Tony and Ziva and then over to Gibbs who stared at him with no expression. _Yep, Gibbs knows already._ To be honest, he was surprised that Ziva didn't know as well.

"Well?" Tony asked. "Give us the lowdown. What did she give you? Thirty lashes? A tongue whipping? What?" He looked far too eager and Tim wasn't sure whether to laugh or be disgusted.

"I've been suspended without pay for a month," he said calmly.

Tony looked more surprised than Tim would have thought. "Why?" he asked.

"It should be fairly obvious, Tony."

"Is that all?" Ziva asked.

"No."

"There's more?"

"When I come back, I'll be on probation for two months."

Again, Tony looked too surprised, but this time, he chuckled after a moment's pause. "So you really _will_ be a probie again."

"Did I ever stop being one in your mind, Tony?"

"Of course not."

Tim rolled his eyes. "That's what I thought. "

A strained silence fell as the four looked at each other, wondering what to say.

"Well, I told you that you wouldn't get fired," Tony said, finally.

"Yes, you did, Tony. You were right…" Tim trailed off, his eyes widening expressively.

"Don't say it. You'll only lose your sympathy points," Tony warned.

No one's heart was in the banter, but it was the effort they had to make to bring things back to normal. Tim held back a sad smile. It wasn't working. The tension was still there. Then, he caught Gibbs' eye and realized his explanations weren't over yet. He hadn't really talked to Gibbs since he'd been in the hospital, and while he must know the results, Tim was sure that he'd need to explain himself to Gibbs.

"I'll give you a ride back to your place," Tony was offering when Tim started paying attention again.

Before he could answer, Gibbs said, "I don't think so, DiNozzo."

"Ah, come on, Boss," Tony wheedled. "You don't want to make the probie pay for a taxi, do you? Huh?"

Gibbs just got up from his desk, slapped Tony on the back of the head and gestured to Tim to precede him into the elevator.

"That report better be finished by the time I get back, DiNozzo," he said as the doors began to close.

"Right, Boss."

As the elevator began to descend, Tim waited for a jolt that never came. The elevator reached the ground floor and they got out. He almost protested because he just _knew_ that Gibbs was going to have something to say…and yet he didn't say anything at all. The silence continued on the drive over to Tim's apartment and Tim could feel _something_ building, whether it was on his part or Gibbs' he wasn't sure. He just knew that it would come out eventually. …and yet, they pulled into the parking lot without a word being spoken.

"Thanks for the ride, Boss."

"You're welcome, McGee."

Nothing. Tim turned to open the door and stopped.

"Boss?"

"What, McGee?"

Tim just stared at him in frustration.

"What?" Gibbs repeated.

"I-I thought you'd have something to say."

"Do _you_?" Gibbs returned.

"Should I?"

"I don't know, McGee. Should you?"

Now, Tim was certain that Gibbs had something to say and that he was expecting Tim to say something as well…but he wasn't going to instigate the conversation for some reason.

"Can't you just say it, Boss?" he asked, finally.

"Say what, McGee?"

Tim found himself getting angry at Gibbs. He knew _exactly_ what Tim meant and he was playing dumb, for some unfathomable reason. Why was he doing this? Why couldn't he just let Tim get it over with? Would that be too much to ask?

"How…how disappointed you are in my actions. How stupid it was for me to make the same mistake twice. How I illustrated once again how little trust I actually have in my teammates. How I screwed things up…again. Why aren't you saying it?"

"Do I really need to say the words, McGee? Would that make any difference?"

Tim shrugged. "I'd rather know it all at once than have it come out again later."

Gibbs, still impassive, regarded Tim for a long moment. "If I were to say those things to you, what would you say in reply?"

"What is there to say, Boss? It's all true…and I know how you feel about apologies." Tim sighed and let out a small cough. "Never mind. Thanks." Tim grabbed the door handle and opened it.

"McGee."

Tim stopped but didn't look back. "Yes, Boss?"

"Do you know why I haven't said any of that?"

"No."

"Because I don't need to."

"Why not?" Tim asked, still not turning back. "You said it all the first time. You've said parts of it over and over. Why not now?"

"Because, McGee, you're saying so much worse to yourself that I don't think you could hear me. When I think you're ready to listen, then I'll say what needs to be said…not until then."

"I listen, Boss," Tim said, his voice very soft.

"I don't think you really do, McGee…or if you do, you don't believe me."

"What do you mean?"

Gibbs just chuckled. "You know exactly what I mean, McGee. You know what I'll say. You know what I mean. You have a month to think about it. Don't waste it."

Tim finally looked back, for just a moment. Gibbs didn't look like he was making fun of him. He was making a point…but Tim didn't like where he thought it was all going. He couldn't really respond; so he just got out of the car and headed up to his apartment, ready to start his month of suspension.


	24. Chapter 24

**Chapter 24**

_Week 1…_

For the first week, Tim was mostly content to lay around and recover. He had to go back to the hospital a couple of times for some breathing treatments and for a follow-up, just to be sure there would be no permanent damage from all the water inhalation and from the general bad state of his lungs after nearly drowning. He also started his required visits to the psychiatrist. However, other than that, he stuck around his apartment, sleeping, gaming, eating. It was boring, but he found that he was actually enjoying himself a little bit. At first, Tim felt guilty for that. He shouldn't be _happy_ that he had been suspended. He should be mortified…but he wasn't.

Near the end of that first week, he woke up one morning and finally realized why: Everything was out in the open. He wasn't hiding. He wasn't pretending. Above all, he wasn't _lying_ to anyone. Nevermind the fact that he wasn't really _seeing_ anyone else, but the truth had been told…and he was receiving his just desserts as he had secretly been wanting to happen ever since the first time he had stolen a piece of evidence. It was a great relief to be free of the guilt…at least most of it. It was hard to let it all go…

_Week 2…_

The second week of his suspension was significantly different from the first week…although not on the surface. Tim still spent most of his time in his apartment, but he was thinking a lot more about what had happened and more than that, _why_ it had happened. What had changed him so drastically that he felt it more important to lie than to tell the truth? It was Ziva's bad luck to decide to visit him when he was feeling particularly pensive. He had been typing up some thoughts on his computer (not his typewriter) when he heard the knock on the door.

He opened the door and his eyes showed his surprise at having a visitor.

"Shocked to see me, McGee?" Ziva asked, grinning. "You are not a social leper. It is not required that you cut yourself off from your colleagues."

"Uh…" Tim backed up in order to let her inside. "Uh…I didn't really…uh…come in." Those were just about the first words he'd said aloud for more than a week outside his sessions with his psychiatrist. They were less-than-impressive and Tim rather wished that he could go back about ten seconds in time and say something better.

"Thank you." Ziva walked by Tim and looked around the apartment. "Is there no place to sit down?"

"Uh…I…I have a chair," Tim stuttered and pulled it out from his computer desk.

"Why are you so nervous, McGee?" Ziva asked in amusement.

"I just…I wasn't expecting anyone to come by…today," Tim said and quickly minimized his ramblings.

"What was that you were working on?"

"Oh, nothing, nothing really." At Ziva's raised eyebrows, he added, "I'm just…trying to make sense of things."

"What things?"

"Just…you know…the things that have been going on lately. Writing it down helps me think."

"I see. And what are your conclusions?"

Tim wandered over to his writing desk and pulled the chair from there over to where he could see Ziva.

"I haven't really come to any as yet."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't understand my motivations."

Ziva smiled and leaned forward. "And Tony said that _I_ sound like a talk show host."

"What do you mean?"

"McGee, you seem to be putting too much time into something that you really already understand. You just do not like the answer."

Tim rested his arms on his knees and stared morosely at the floor. "Then, why did I do it, Ziva?"

"You are asking _me_ to explain _your_ thoughts? You must be desperate, McGee," Ziva said, still smiling.

"I'm…I'm not _desperate_; I mean, I can give reasons, the way I was thinking at the time. It's just that I can't figure out why I decided it would be a good idea to try and pretend there was nothing wrong rather than tell the truth. I don't even know why I thought I could get away with it…let alone the fact that I actually did." Tim shifted his gaze to his hands. "I can't believe that I looked you guys in the eyes and lied."

Ziva's smile faded a little. "Is that why you have not spoken to us for two weeks?"

"Partly."

"If that is all that is worrying you, McGee, we do not think that you are a liar."

Tim didn't look up. "Thanks, Ziva. Really. I…I think I needed to hear that…from someone other than Abby." He laughed softly. "But…I'm really sorry that I lied to you."

"Everyone lies, McGee. It is a sad thing to say, but it is true. We all keep our secrets. I do. Tony does. Gibbs does. You are no exception."

"Secrets are one thing. Lies are another."

"True, but what I say still is accurate. Everyone lies at some time. It would be wrong if we took this one event and made it into everything you are. …and you should not do that either, you know."

Tim smiled at the floor. "I know."

Ziva leaned over so that she could catch Tim's eye. "But it will not stop you from doing just that, will it?"

Tim looked at her for a moment and then dropped his eyes back to the floor once more. "It's hard not to. It looms pretty large in my head for some reason."

"That is only because you are not taking the time to think of anything else," Ziva said and stood up quickly. Tim did the same and then opened his mouth to protest as she strode into his bedroom.

"What are you doing?"

"You need to leave this apartment and you cannot do so in what you are now wearing. I know that you have normal clothes because you wear them to work."

Tim looked down at himself and flushed as he remembered that he had not bothered to change out of his pajamas that morning. Then, Ziva's words actually penetrated and he followed her.

"Wait a second! What? Where am I going?"

"I do not know yet, but you _are_ going to leave this…this hermitage and speak with real people."

Tim laughed. "Hermitage?"

"Is that not the word?"

"I suppose it is…_a_ word; I've just never had my apartment described that way before."

Ziva rifled through his clothes, and Tim was suddenly struck with a memory of a similar event…only with Tony instead of Ziva, trying to force him out into the world as a way of…curing him or something. He had completely rebuffed Tony because he couldn't bear the thought of leaving. This time, it wasn't so bad, but he wasn't sure he wanted to greet the world.

"How about this?" Ziva said, holding up a pair of slacks and a shirt.

Tim shrugged. "Sure, I guess. Ziva…"

She threw the clothes at him. "No, do not try to get out of it. I will not permit you to stay in here and hide. You are not an exile and you are not a prisoner. So…you must leave and rejoin the world outside these walls."

Tim stared at her as he tried to sort his clothing.

"I will give you five minutes…and then…if you are _not_ ready…" she stopped talking and walked past him. Tim was deciphering the threat when he suddenly felt her right beside him. She finished her threat in his ear. "…_I_ will assist you."

Tim gulped audibly and as soon as the door closed behind him, he began to frantically change his clothes. When he re-entered the living room two minutes later, Ziva was just finishing a conversation on her phone.

"Who was that?"

"Tony and Abby are going to meet us."

And with those words, Tim lost all desire to leave…well, not _all_, but most of his desire. "Ziva, I…" She glared at him, but he continued doggedly. "…I don't think I should…go. It doesn't feel right."

"Why not?"

"Because…" Tim paused to try and find the right words to express how he felt. "…because I'm on suspension! This isn't a vacation. It's a punishment. I shouldn't be…"

"Having fun? Doing normal things?" she asked.

"Yeah."

Ziva walked to him and took his hand. "McGee, you do not understand the purpose of punishment."

"What is that?"

"It is not to make the one being punished miserable. It is to teach a lesson. In this case, I believe the lesson has long since been learned. You do not need to make yourself suffer. You are doing as you should and seeing that Director Shephard did not place you under house arrest, you are free to leave. You are free to see your friends and you are free to be happy. So come!" Her hand tightened around his and she dragged him to the door, pausing only long enough to allow him to grab his wallet and keys.

"Ziva!"

"No, McGee! If it will make you feel better, you may pretend that I am punishing you by forcing you to be in Tony's company!" she shot back over her shoulder as she dragged him down the steps. Tim gave up and allowed himself to be led to her car.

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That night out with his friends was a turning point for Tim. He talked, ate and laughed. He got teased. He managed to forget, if only for a few hours, the recent embarrassing chapter of his life. Then, as he got out of the car and his doubts surged forward again, Ziva caught his hand.

"McGee?"

"What, Ziva?"

"I know why you did what you did."

He smiled half-heartedly. "Why?"

"You were afraid," she said simply.

"Afraid?"

"Yes. Fear makes us do many things we would never do. You were afraid." Then, she put her car in reverse, signaling that she was finished with the conversation.

"Thanks, Ziva," Tim said and then closed the door. He looked after her as she drove away and then glanced up at his apartment. "Home, again," he said to himself.

_Week 3…_

The third week of his suspension was again totally different. Tim finally called his parents and told them what had happened. He had to endure the worrying tone of his mother and the hectoring tone of his father, but in the end, he was glad he had finally done it because the biggest thought in both their minds was whether or not he was okay. He spent time talking to his friends, but because of a big case that began, he didn't spend as much time as he may have wished to. Instead, he ended up doing more thinking. This thinking, though, was geared more toward Gibbs' parting words than anything else. He couldn't stop thinking about how Gibbs had said he didn't listen. Again, it was during his pensive mood that he received his second visitor. The knocking came on Saturday night as Tim was just thinking of going to bed. The knocking surprised him because he wasn't expecting anyone at all to be around.

He looked through his peephole and was a little more surprised and also a bit nervous. Nevertheless, he opened the door.

"Hey, Tony. What's up?"

Tony looked uncommonly uncomfortable, as if he was trying to make himself say something that he didn't really want to say.

"Do you want to come in?" Tim asked.

Tony walked by without speaking.

"What is it, Tony? …I'm not fired, am I?" Tim asked, joking a little.

"McGee?"

"Yes?"

For a moment, Tony didn't speak. Then, the words came out in a rush. "I'm sorry."

"For what, Tony?"

"Oh, come on, McGee. I made everything harder for you. I always have."

Tim gave a slightly bewildered smile. "Tony…" he laughed. "…that's your job description, isn't it?"

"I'm being serious here, McGee."

The smile slipped from Tim's lips. "Tony…you really don't have anything you need to apologize for. I should be apologizing to you."

"You already did that once," Tony said.

"Yes, but that was only for being a jerk. I never apologized for thinking the worst of you."

"What do you mean, McGee?"

"I assumed that you and Ziva would…I was afraid that you wouldn't believe me. I thought that you would really think that I was a murderer. I couldn't stand the thought and I was afraid. I should have known better. I should have remembered that you've never thought that way. I should have remembered when I shot Benedict that you were about the first person trying to defend me…even from myself. I didn't remember any of that. I only remembered the jokes, the teasing, the endless hazing…I let everything positive slip away. I shouldn't have. I'm sorry."

Tony looked surprised…and a little ashamed. "Well, McGee…what do you say we consider this a mutual acceptance of apologies and shake on it?"

Tim smiled and hesitantly held out his hand. Tony grasped it and gave it a solid shake.

"Deal?"

"Deal."

Tony grinned. "Good. Now when you come back, I can tease you without mercy."

Tim smiled back. "I guess so."

"Okay, Probie. We just finished a case and I need to unwind. Want to catch a movie?"

Tim looked around his apartment and spared a lingering glance at his typewriter. _No, I __can do that later._ "Sure. I don't have anything planned."

"I can tell," Tony said snidely, looking at Tim's casual attire.

Tim rolled his eyes and said, "I can pick my own clothes, Tony."

"Yeah…I can see that."

Tim laughed and went to change.

_Week 4…_

Tim managed to get through half of the fourth week of his suspension without being nervous. However, by Wednesday, he saw the looming date of his return to NCIS as nothing less than terrifying. He was going to have to start working again and while he'd made some good progress in his perception of what had happened, there was still his general feeling of responsibility. To be honest, he was afraid of having to report to Gibbs again. He felt like he was going to be yelled at. His nightmares, which had mostly faded during the previous weeks, surged back with a vengeance, a product of his latent worries.

_Monday morning, 3 a.m._

_"Horror has a face and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and mortal terror are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies." Robert Smith's voice echoed through the bathroom, rising even above the sou__n__d of the rushing water. Tim could see the water level rising. It was so close to him. The water was everywhere around him, coming closer and closer to killing him…_

Tim sat up in bed, breathing quickly, covered in a cold sweat, his heart beating wildly, his terror so intense that it brought tears to his eyes. He looked around, trying to find a threatening shadow in the darkness. There was nothing. Still breathing loudly, he looked over at the clock.

"Three in the morning…" he said, drawing his knees to his chest in a protective gesture. "I'm not going back to sleep tonight." He sat on his bed, trying to control his breathing, his terror, for about ten minutes before he felt calm enough to really think. No, there would be no more sleep. He had about four hours left before he had to go to work. What could he do to pass the time? Almost without thinking, he got out of bed and walked to his writing desk. He hadn't done much writing during his suspension, but suddenly, he had a thought of what to do. It was ironic really. He had been writing about Agent McGregor going rogue, taking the law into his own hands. He had become a vigilante and Tim's last scene had been writing about how he had tracked the two men responsible for the attack on his teammates and then been forced to kill one of them.

He sat down at the typewriter and began to type…no jazz, just the silence. After a few minutes, he sat back and stared at the page. A crazy idea took shape in his head and his hands began to shake.

"I can't get past it if I can't face it," he said to himself. He carefully picked up his typewriter and walked into the bathroom. He set the typewriter on the toilet and then went back to his desk and rolled his chair into the bathroom, closing the door behind him. Then, his hands still shaking, he went to his bathtub and turned on the tap. The roaring sound of the water actually made his heart rate increase and his breathing became louder. He sat down on his chair and began to type again. All the while, the water poured into the tub. He hadn't taken a bath since his near-drowning. Showers were fine, so long as he didn't put his face in the water, but baths were not. He kept typing and soon a coherent idea took shape.

_McGregor stared morosely over the edge of the bridge. Amy would recover…eventually. Tommy and Lisa were still in critical condition. He could, even now, feel the blood on__ his face from the bullets tearing through their flesh__. Sometimes, he thought he could never get it off. He felt dirty, contaminated by the events of the past few days. Tibbs had understood, of course. He had done things of a similar nature himself. __Two people who had become obsessed with him, but they hadn't taken it out on McGregor. Oh no. McGregor had been forced to see the results of their obsession, to feel the excruciating pain of each wound inflicted on those closest to him. Each moment brought the guilt to the fore, each moment was a fresh reminder of the pain, the neverending pain. Would he never get the blood off?_

Tears clouded Tim's vision and he had to stop typing. The water still gushed from the faucet, and he made no move to turn it off. He had to clench his fists to stop the shaking as he wiped his eyes. He looked back to the page. Yes, this would work. With the water still roaring in his ears, he continued.

_"McGregor, what are you doing out here?" Tibbs voice resounded over the roaring of the falls._

_"Thinking," came the half-hearted reply. McGregor had been on the verge of making some permanent decisions._

_"About what, McGregor?"_

_"I gave everything up to catch them, all that I am. I gave it up. I succeeded, but what do I do now?" McGregor looked at the falls; the churning water seemed to call to him, beckoning him nearer, ever nearer._

_"Did you? Are you sure?"_

_"Yes, Tibbs. I'm sure…and I did it for revenge. How do I get it back?" He didn't let Tibbs answer. "I know there's nothing I can do. Amy, Lisa, Tommy. They all paid the price for __my mistakes. How can I take that back?"_

_"They didn't die, McGregor."_

_"So far…"_

_"They won't," Tibbs said, sounding more adamant than McGregor felt he had any right to. "Why do you come here, McGregor?"_

_McGregor continued to stare at the rushing water. "Sometimes, I can still hear it in my head, even when I'm nowhere near. The water calls to me, Tibbs. Sometimes…sometimes, I think it will be my grave."_

Again, Tim had to stop. He looked over at the tub. He stood and approached it. The shower curtain was covering it. His hand shook as he lifted it. He needed to see the water flowing. In one swift motion, he pulled the curtain out of the way, subconsciously expecting to see a body there…his own. He knelt beside the tub. He'd be paying for this time when his next water bill showed up. Slowly, he reached his hand down and put the plug in the drain. Immediately, the water began to pool and spread, the level rising quickly. Tim became entranced, watching it fill…

Twenty unnoticed minutes later, he started as the water began to pour over the sides. He shook his head and frantically turned off the tap. His pajamas were soaked. There was water all over the floor. He looked sheepishly at it and sighed at his own folly. He let the water start to drain and paused, remembering…

_"Only half full. I'll even put you at the shallow end, Agent McGee. Then, you can feel the water getting closer and closer to your face…"_

He shook his head again, pulling himself from the memory. He put the plug in again when the tub was half full. He stared at it. It seemed to suck him in. Suddenly, he lost his balance and pitched forward into the tub, his head hitting the ceramic edge. His face slipped into the water and he was back up, sputtering and crying, rubbing the goose egg which was beginning to form on his forehead. Now, soaking wet from head to toe, he sat back and leaned against the wall. _What time is it?_ he wondered. He crawled out of the bathroom and looked at the display: _5:30 a.m._

"Time to stop writing," he said to himself and pulled himself to his feet. Slowly, he moved his typewriter and his chair back to their rightful positions. He looked at the page he had typed. Quickly, he sat down and added one more exchange, the ending the chapter needed.

_"Maybe it will be…"_

_"When?" Tibbs asked._

_McGregor did not answer, unable to tear his eyes away from the falls._

Satisfied, in an unsatisfied way, Tim got up and began to prepare for his first day back. He wondered what would happen.


	25. Chapter 25

**Chapter 25**

As Tim neared the Navy Yard, his mind began to fill with the kind of baseless worries a stressed person thinks up. What if he'd misread the day? What if he was early? What if he was _late_? What if he'd misunderstood and he wasn't supposed to come back at all? He knew it was silly, but it was still in his head…speaking of his head…as he rolled up to a stop light, he looked at himself in the rearview mirror. The goose egg looked even worse now than it had an hour ago. It was turning purple and was quite large. _Great. Just what I need for my first day back…more scrutiny._ Worse was, of course, the fact that he knew everyone would want to know what had happened. Quite frankly, he was at a loss to explain it, and he didn't really want to try. And yet… he couldn't lie to them…not again. However, if he told them exactly what had happened, would they think he was crazy? _Was_ he crazy? The light turned green and Tim pushed on the gas again. He rolled his eyes at himself. He was starting his first day of probation and he was worrying about a _bump_ on his head? There were much worse things to worry about…which, to be honest, was probably the reason he was worrying about it. The entrance to the Navy Yard loomed up ahead of him and Tim took a deep breath. No sense in postponing the inevitable…especially when he was happy about being back. It was just all the attached strings that were giving him the jitters.

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"Hey, Probie, welcome back… what is _that_?" Tony said as Tim tried to walk quickly by him to his desk.

Tim decided to play dumb. "What is what, Tony?"

"On your head, Probie." Tony looked _concerned_, and Tim felt a blush starting in his cheeks.

"Just a goose egg, Tony. I'm sure you've seen them before."

Tony stood up and stopped Tim before he could walk any further. He turned him around and began examining the lump. Ziva also came to join the examination.

"Guys, it's nothing," Tim said, backing away.

"How did it happen?"

"I bumped my head this morning," Tim said.

"On what? An anvil? This is huge," Tony said and began to probe at it.

Tim winced and pulled away. "No. Not on an anvil."

"Then, what?"

"Yes, McGee, how did you do this?" Ziva put in, with less concern, but no less interest.

Tim looked back and forth between the two of them. It was no use avoiding the topic, but maybe he could temporize without lying. "I…I lost my balance in the shower."

"How?" Tony asked. "Did you slip on the soap or something?"

"No."

"Was someone in the shower with you?" Ziva asked.

"_No!_" Tim said.

"Then, what happened?" Ziva asked. "Is it embarrassing? Is that why you do not want to answer?"

Tim sighed and walked over to his desk. He dropped his bag there and noticed that his badge and gun were not where he had dropped them so long ago. He wondered where they had gone to. If he had lost them, it would not look good. He looked up and saw Tony and Ziva still looking at him with questioning glances.

"I…" Tim looked anywhere but at them. "…I was kneeling by the tub and I looked into the water. I lost my balance and fell in, hitting my head on the side of the tub. It's not a big deal!"

Gibbs entered the bullpen at the moment and took in the surprised silence from Tony and Ziva. He dismissed it as unimportant.

"McGee!"

"Yes, Boss?" Tim immediately came to attention, grateful to have something else to think about.

"Jenny wants to have a meeting with us in her office."

"Right…right now?" Tim felt butterflies begin to flit around in his stomach again.

"No…in a year or two. Come on!" Gibbs strode away, leaving Tim to follow behind and Tony and Ziva to stare at each other.

"Why was he kneeling beside the tub?" Ziva asked.

"How could he lose his balance by looking into the water?" Tony returned.

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"She's ready for you, Agent Gibbs," Cynthia said very quickly as Gibbs walked by her without stopping. "I don't know why I bother."

Tim gave her a weak smile and shrugged. She grinned back and gestured for him to follow Gibbs.

Tim walked into the office, trying not to look as nervous as he felt.

Jenny's eyes flicked to the large lump on Tim's forehead, but she didn't comment. "Ah, welcome back, Agent McGee. You are looking much better than the last time I saw you."

"Thank you, Director. I'm feeling m-much better." _That stupid stutter. I thought I'd gotten rid of it,_ Tim thought to himself furiously.

Jenny smiled. "Don't be so nervous, Agent McGee. I simply am officially welcoming you back. You are now on probation under Special Agent Gibbs. He will determine your duties and will report to me on your performance." She opened the drawer of her desk. "I believe these belong to you." She held out Tim's badge and gun.

Tim tried to keep the joy he felt off his face. He tried to look professional, but he couldn't help smiling as he took them back and felt their comforting weight in his hands. He suddenly realized that he should be saying something. He looked at Gibbs and Jenny and flushed at their bemused expressions.

"Thank you, Director Shephard," he said.

"You're welcome, Agent McGee. That will be all."

"Yes, ma'am." Tim turned and headed to the door.

"Agent Gibbs? Could I speak with you for a moment?"

Tim paused at Gibbs' sigh but then continued on out the door. Just before it closed, he heard Jenny say, "We're going to do this by the book, Jethro."

"By what book?" Gibbs returned, sounding annoyed. The door closed and Tim looked back worriedly. He was causing so much difficulty.

"Welcome back, Agent McGee."

Tim barely turned, his mind still on the words he had heard.

"Agent McGee?"

He jumped. "Th-Thanks, Cynthia."

"What happened to your head?"

Tim rubbed at it. "I just hit my head in the shower this morning. Clumsy."

"Nervous?"

"That, too."

"I wouldn't worry too much. This probation will most likely be just a formality. Gibbs certainly won't want to make too much of it."

Tim half-smiled. "That's probably true. I…" he started and then stopped. "Thanks, Cynthia."

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"By what book?"

"You know very well what I mean, Jethro. I expect regular reports from you during the next two months."

"You're making this more difficult than it should be, Jen," Gibbs said.

"No, I'm not. I'm doing this to make it easier on McGee. If we do everything exactly right, then he won't have any shadow left from this case. It can't follow him."

"Do you really think that matters to him?"

"Probably not right now, but it will in the future. By the book," she repeated.

"Fine." Gibbs turned around and began to leave.

"By the way…"

"What."

"What _did_ happen to McGee's head?"

"He hit it on the side of his bathtub."

"Really. What were the circumstances that brought about that particular result?"

"I don't know, Jen. Perhaps you'd like me to slip him a note after class asking him."

Jenny rolled her eyes. "Perhaps his supervisor should find out."

"Perhaps." Gibbs left.

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"Tim! Welcome back!" Abby threw her arms around Tim as if she hadn't seen him in years.

"Hi, Abby."

"What happened to your head?"

"I just bumped it in the shower this morning. It's really embarrassing," Tim said, hoping to forestall any other comment. Luckily, Abby's mind was elsewhere and she didn't probe.

"I'm so glad you're down here. I need your help."

"Uh, well, I'm not sure…"

Abby punched him on the arm. "Not a word, McGee. You are back at work. I'll be watching you." She smiled to take the sting out of her words. "Now, I need you to help me with this. We're closing in on the guy, but I've had so many things piling up that I haven't had time to go through his hard drive. Please? Please? I won't let anything go wrong!"

Tim winced inwardly, but he didn't let it show. He didn't want anyone watching him, waiting for him to mess up again.

"Okay, Abby…as long as you tell Gibbs if he gets mad at me for it."

She waved her hand dismissively. "He won't get mad."

"Not at you."

"Not at you either. Come on, Tim!" she begged, her eyes wide and innocent.

Tim sighed and nodded. "Okay. Where is it?"

"Over there!"

Tim walked over to the computer, feeling…strange. He didn't like that Abby said she wouldn't let anything go wrong. His skills hadn't disappeared just because he was on probation. He didn't say anything about it though. He wouldn't lie if asked…that was probably the one thing that he agreed with his therapist about, and he didn't really like his therapist…or maybe it was just _therapy_ he didn't like. The procedure was fairly familiar, i.e. you talk about what you did and how it made you feel. It wasn't new to him. He'd been to a psychiatrist before, but for a completely different reason…sort of. In any case, Dr. Leavitt had focused on how Tim's lying and his hiding things about himself had created the situation, rather than the situation itself. Tim needed to be more open about himself and not be afraid to let others see his mistakes. So, Tim wouldn't hide it if asked about it, but he wouldn't volunteer the information either. There was nothing in the rules that said he had to make his mind an open book for all to read. He had the right to privacy still.

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Gibbs watched Tim closely that first day…that whole first week. Of course, he had watched him before, made sure that he was doing things correctly, but during his initial training, Tony had been the one more or less in charge of making sure Tim didn't royally screw up…not that it was a vital task. Tim had come in knowing procedures and regulations cold. He was not one who needed to be told what was the right or wrong thing to do based on the _rules_. No, what Tim had had to learn was the necessity of feeling his way through a situation. He had needed experience, growth. He had gained that, slowly, with a few pitfalls along the way. So, watching him now was different. Gibbs wasn't really watching for mistakes or for relapses into his previous unacceptable behavior. He wasn't worried about that happening. He was watching to see what Tim had lost from his actions and to see how he was dealing with _all_ consequences of the previous case. Jenny would get her reports, but the real purpose of this probation, at least as far as Gibbs was concerned, was to see how much Tim had changed.

Tim didn't elaborate on what had happened to his head during that first day. He was embarrassed by it, but he was also disturbed as well. Gibbs wasn't sure why, but he decided, as much as it galled him that Jenny might be right, that he needed to find out. However, he didn't ask the first day. He wanted to wait and see if Tim would make the decision on his own.

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When he came back from the lab, Tim felt like everyone was staring at him. It wasn't just the goose egg either. He had expected to get the second looks from that, but beyond that, he felt as though everyone was waiting for him to make another colossal mistake. He tried to tell himself that he was just being overly sensitive, but he couldn't ignore it and it made him edgy. Still, he didn't say anything, hoping that it would get better, that it was only because it was his first day back. The worst moment was when the arrest warrant for their case finally came through and the team got ready to leave.

Tim stood up to follow.

"McGee, you stay here," Gibbs said, shortly as Tony and Ziva headed to the elevator.

Tim almost protested, but he swallowed his complaint and nodded, sinking slowly back down into his seat. The bullpen seemed empty, even though the only people missing were Gibbs, Tony and Ziva. Tim stared at the empty desks, feeling more alone than he had in his apartment. He didn't know what he had been expecting really. He knew things couldn't get back to normal right away…maybe not ever. He sighed deeply and felt the slightest twinge in his chest. He was basically recovered physically. He couldn't say as much for his mental health.

"Hey, McGee. Where is everyone?"

"Out making the arrest," he said glumly.

"Why aren't you?" Abby asked.

"Gibbs told me to stay."

"Oh." Abby looked momentarily nonplussed, but then she shrugged. "He's probably just being careful. Your first day back and all."

"Yeah…you're probably right," Tim said. _But careful about what?_

"Hey, don't look like that, Tim. It's not what you're thinking."

"You're probably right," Tim said again…but it didn't make him feel any better.

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Tim went home that evening feeling that, on the whole, his first day could have gone better. He didn't do much, some computer work, but it kept him busy most of the day. It was just that he felt somehow…apart…separated from his team…and he didn't like it. He had worked so hard to fit in, to belong, that _not_ belonging hurt. He looked at his typewriter and nodded. Typing would help. He made dinner, ate it quickly and sat down to begin the next chapter, but no words came.

"I don't need to hear the water. I remember it," Tim said to his typewriter. It sat silent and impassive. Tim felt a thrill of fear, much like he had on that day. "I don't need that." Still, the words wouldn't come. He picked up his typewriter and put it on his chair.

_The two men stood in a __motion__a__less__ motionless tableau, one afraid, the other…almost lost._

_"Do you believe in destiny, Tibbs?"_

_"No."_

_"I do. I__bleeive__ believe we have connections, __invivlbe__invisible connections with other people, with certain locations. Nothing we can do will ever eliminate them. The connections, once they are forged, last forever," McGregor said as he __starred__stared at the falls._

_Tibbs, in turn, stared at McGregor, wishing that he would stop leaning so far over the railing, wishing that he understood just what this conversation was really about._

_"And what is your destiny, McGregor?"_

_"I told you," McGregor __anwsered__answered, his voice faint, his eyes fixed on a point somewhere beyond infinity. "My destiny is here, with these falls, with this water. It was me, you know."_

_"What was?"_

_"I'm the connection. I am the link between Amy, Tommy, Lisa and those…" his voice became briefly full of hatred, "…murdering__swine thieves__ scumbags__…and between them and the water."_

Tim took a deep shuddering breath and pulled himself out of the story. He had never been this deeply involved in _Deep Six_. Of course, Tibbs and the others had been much more prominent than McGregor, and it was McGregor who was the focus in _Rock Hollow_…but that couldn't quite explain why he was making McGregor suicidal. He, Tim McGee, was not suicidal, just…bothered by some things. Still, his publisher couldn't complain that he was being too tame. The roaring of the water made him make more mistakes though. There were strikeouts all over the page.

Tim left his typewriter and walked to the bathtub once more. Slowly, almost without thought, he began to remove his clothing, never taking his eyes from the water. His dreams, even when they weren't of him dying, involved water. It was always there. He leaned over and put in the plug, but instead of getting in, he sat on the floor and stared the water as it gushed from the tap. What if he, or rather McGregor, was right? What if this _was_ his destiny? He noticed the water getting closer to full and he crawled over to turn it off. He reached out to do it, but he couldn't. Instead, he took out the plug and left the water running. Then, he climbed into the tub and shivered at the cold water. He sat shaking, as much from fear as from cold, watching the tub empty, the water swirling down the drain. He leaned forward and caught some of the water in his cupped palms and then watched it leak out and join the rest of the rushing water. He put the plug in the drain once more and watched as the waterline crept ever higher. The higher it got, the more frightened he became. His breathing was loud and shaky. Still, he did not get out. He just sat and watched the water. At half full, he quickly turned the faucet off and sat, shaking, with his eyes closed, trying to fend off the panic. He couldn't and nearly leapt from the tub, onto the floor again. There he sat, his arms around his knees, shivering in the cold, no tears, just breathing.

Time passed unnoticed as Tim continued to stare at the bathtub, at the water still contained within it. He didn't notice the chill. He just sat and stared for hours, his body shaking, his mind blank. Finally, he seemed to come out of a trance and looked around the bathroom. He stumbled into his bedroom, put on his pajamas and fell into bed. He was asleep in seconds.

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_Four days later…_

"Will you all stop _staring_ at me?" Tim shouted. He was standing in the middle of the bullpen, his face the picture of frustration. He had spent every night that week in the bathroom, and then, every day, he had come to work and dealt with the stares, the sidelong glances. Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. "I'm not going to make the same mistake again. I'm _not_! Please, just stop…staring…" Tim said and trailed off as Gibbs approached. He took a deep shuddering breath and couldn't meet his gaze.

"My office, McGee," Gibbs said quietly. The new case that had come up had put his intention to speak with Tim earlier out of his head. He regretted that now.

"Yes, Boss." Tim walked to the elevator, Gibbs right behind him. He didn't bother to turn around when the elevator jolted to a stop. He was waiting for the headslap. It didn't come.

"You want to talk about it, McGee?"

Tim stared at the wall. "About what, Boss?"

"About whatever is bothering you, about how you got that bump on your head, about why you've been shivering all day. Any of those grab you?"

"I'm cold," Tim answered.

Gibbs smiled. "Yes, I figured that part out myself. Why?"

"It's winter, Boss."

"Not inside, it's not. In fact, most people have been complaining about it being too warm."

"Have they?"

"What is it, McGee?" Gibbs asked again.

"It's…it's…" Tim couldn't, for the life of him, figure out how to explain what had been happening to him this week. "People keep staring at me, like they're waiting for me to mess up again, and I…I can't stand the scrutiny. I'm…afraid…"

"Of what?"

"…that I _am_ going to mess up again, but I never do as well when people are watching me anyway. Call it performance anxiety if you want. I just don't…like the stares."

"McGee, the only one watching you more than usual is me…and that's only because I have to."

"No, Boss. That's not true. Tony and Ziva keep glancing at me. They haven't been teasing me or pulling pranks. They keep…watching me."

Gibbs thought back. It was true. They _had_ been watching Tim. He wondered why now that he thought of it. "Is that all?"

"No, Boss."

"Then, what?"

"I don't know…"

Gibbs waited.

"I don't know how to explain it."

"Explain what?"

Tim finally turned around. His hand was shaking as he brought it up to his forehead. "This. I can tell you exactly what happened, but I can't explain it."

"Try," Gibbs suggested. This was much like their confrontation in Abby's lab a month ago. Tim seemed just as uncomfortable and confused.

Tim looked past Gibbs. "It's…the water."

"The water? What do you mean?"

"I can hear it…all the time. I…I still dream about it. The sound of it, filling the tub, filling…" Tim stopped and took a deep breath, as if reminding himself that he still could, "…my lungs. I can't get it out of my head, Boss. It's always there, just on the edge of my hearing."

"What does that have to do with that knot on your head?"

"I was…in my bathroom," Tim said, still shaking, his words were even a little slurred. "I…it was about five in the morning. I had the water running. I looked at it. It seemed to suck me in. _Fear and mortal terror are your friends. If they are not, then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies._ He said that to me…just before he put me in the tub. I couldn't even scream, Boss. I couldn't fight. I just had to…listen to the water, watch it rise. I could feel it killing me…I didn't want it. I could feel it…and I had no choice but to let it happen. I felt it. I saw it. I heard it." Tim was shaking so much now that Gibbs was surprised he could stand. His breathing was anything but calm. "I saw it cover my eyes. I couldn't blink. All the while it was running down my throat, into my lungs. All I could hear was the water. It's so cold. It's so loud. I can't breathe and I can't stop it. Every night…it's there. Every night. I don't have a choice. I can't do anything…"

Gibbs grabbed Tim by the shoulders. Tim's breathing was so erratic that he was sure Tim was going to pass out. "Breathe, McGee. Slowly." Tim didn't seem to hear. His eyes were open so wide that they seemed to be bulging out of his head. Gibbs pushed Tim onto the floor of the elevator and shoved his head between his knees. "Breathe."

Tim still seemed to be trying to speak. Gibbs caught occasional words, most of which involved water or breathing. He turned back on the elevator and sent it down to Autopsy.

"Come on, McGee. Breathe! Stop talking and breathe!" When the doors opened, he called out, "Ducky!"

"What is it, Jethro?" Ducky called back.

"Get in here!"

"Of course, Jethro. But what…" he stopped when he saw Gibbs kneeling beside Tim who was still trying to speak and gasp for breath at the same time. "Good gracious, what happened?"

"Flashback."

Ducky nodded and knelt beside Tim. "Don't worry, Timothy. This is completely normal." That wasn't exactly true, but it didn't really matter. "Remember where you are?" He waited for a response, but Tim was still mumbling incoherently and not listening. "You're at NCIS headquarters, currently sitting on the floor of Gibbs' 'office'. Don't panic. You are safe. The worst danger you face now is listening to me tell you another long drawn-out story." There was still no reaction. "Do you remember where you are, Timothy?" Again, he waited.

The gasps nearly covered up his response, but Tim managed to say, "The elevator."

"That's right. The elevator. Where is that elevator?"

Tim's breathing began to slow. "NC…IS Headquarters."

"Good. Now, take a deep breath, please." Tim did so. "Count to five…_slowly_ and let it out as you do so." Again, Tim followed instructions. "Good. Very good. Again, please. Deep breath. Now, hold it for five counts. Let it out for five counts. Good. Do you remember where you are?"

"NCIS. Gibbs' 'office'," Tim answered promptly, if softly. "Near Autopsy."

Ducky smiled. "Yes, indeed. Not to worry. You are not about to be a customer."

He was rewarded by a smile from Tim's downturned face. He was still breathing deeply. The shakes were receding.

"Not yet, anyway," Tim whispered. He let out a rush of air, almost like a laugh, but not quite.

"Do you remember what just happened?"

Tim nodded, not lifting his head.

"Has this happened before?"

Tim shrugged. "Not…not exactly."

"Meaning?"

"I've remembered it…but not like that. It was different."

"What does your therapist have to say about it?"

"Nothing."

"You have been seeing a psychiatrist, correct?" Ducky asked.

"Yes."

"But?"

"But…we never really talked about…that. I told him about my nightmares and he said they were normal. We focused on my 'trust issues'."

"That's it?"

"Yes."

Ducky made a _tsk_-ing sound but didn't comment. "How are you feeling?"

"A little dizzy," Tim admitted.

"Well, I would say to stay here, but I'm sure _someone_ would like to use this elevator. If you feel up to it, why don't we get you back to your desk?"

"Okay," Tim agreed. He allowed Gibbs to help him to his feet and then, braced himself against the wall of the elevator as it ascended once more. Gibbs didn't speak as he assisted Tim to his desk. Tony and Ziva both stood up, a question on their lips, but a single glance from Gibbs stopped them from speaking.

"Jethro," Ducky said.

After depositing Tim at his desk, Gibbs nodded and followed Ducky back onto the elevator. It closed after them. Tim had put his head down on his arms, his eyes closed, his face pale and sweaty. Tony looked over at Ziva who shrugged helplessly.

"Probie?" Tony asked softly.

For a few seconds, there was no movement from the body across the room. Then, Tim pushed himself into a sitting position. "What, Tony?" he asked, sounding exhausted.

"Are you all right?"

Tim tried to smile and said, "All right enough. My turn. Why are you guys always staring at me?"

"It is not for the reason you think, McGee," Ziva said. "We do not mistrust you."

Resting his head, with his hands on his temples, Tim asked, "Then, why? I feel like you two have been watching me, waiting for something to happen, ever since I got back."

"Do you remember the email you sent out to us, McGee?" Tony asked.

"Of course."

"Do you remember the voice mails you left for Ducky and Abby?"

"Yeah."

"Do you know what they sounded like to us?"

Tim lifted his head, his brow furrowed in confusion. "No."

Ziva stood and walked over to him. "McGee, it sounded like you were saying good-bye…permanently. It sounded like you had given up on yourself and on us."

For a moment, Tim just stared at her. Then, comprehension dawned on his face. "No! No, I never…that, that wasn't it…"

"You weren't thinking of suicide?"

"No!" Tim said, trying to put his recent chapter out his head. "No! I wasn't. I was just apologizing. That's all. I…I didn't think…" Tim flushed, bringing some much needed color back into his face. "I just…I thought that you would never want to speak to me again and email was the only way. You really thought I was suicidal?"

"You said that you were really sorry, that you had ruined everything, that you deserved what might happen to you. What does that sound like to you, McGee?"

"I…I didn't mean it that way," Tim said and dropped his head again. "I'm sorry."

Ziva put her hand on Tim's shoulder. "McGee, do not apologize. _I_ am sorry for misunderstanding you, for making you feel unwelcome." She paused. "What _did_ happen in the elevator?"

Tim looked at her hand. "A…A flashback."

The silence was so complete that it forced Tim to look up again. They were both just looking at him sympathetically…_not_ pityingly. They had been there before and understood that kind of thing.

"Sorry, Probie. We should have mentioned it before…and next time you apologize, try not to sound so dismal, okay?" Tony said.

Tim smiled tiredly. "Will do."

Gibbs suddenly stalked off the elevator. He walked up to Tim, who straightened immediately. "McGee, what's the name of that shrink you've been seeing?"

"Uh…Leavitt…um…Brian Leavitt. Why?"

"Take it easy this weekend. Your session with him tonight is cancelled. Can you drive?"

"Yes…" Tim said hesitantly. "Boss…I don't…"

"We'll explain it to you on Monday. Just relax." He started to walk away again and then turned back, seemed to take in Tim's anxious expression and added, "You're not in trouble, McGee. Don't worry about that…if it happens again, you can call me."

"Th-thanks, Boss," Tim stammered. He looked at Tony and Ziva who shook their heads and didn't say anything.

Tim left two hours later. As he got into his car, he thought, _Well, I can't say my first week back was uneventful._


	26. Chapter 26

**Chapter 26**

Gibbs was livid and not just at the idiot who was Tim's psychiatrist. He was angry at himself as well. How had he let Tim go so long without getting real help? How had he not noticed? He didn't trust shrinks to solve everyone's problems, but Tim had seemed only nervous, not traumatized…until that awful moment in the elevator. There was no excuse for his inattentiveness, but he was going to make up for it. He got to the door to Dr. Leavitt's outer office and squared his shoulders. Then, he turned the knob and walked inside.

"Can I help you, sir?" a young woman asked.

"No. Is Dr. Leavitt in his office?" Gibbs asked, not stopping.

"Yes, but he's on his way…" she trailed off as Gibbs took a fraction of a second to look at her. "…I'll buzz you in."

By the time Gibbs got to the door, it was unlocked. He stormed inside.

"Excuse me, sir, what are you doing in here?" Dr. Leavitt asked, looking annoyed.

"Dr. Leavitt?"

"Yes. Obviously."

"The doctor part is questionable."

"I beg your pardon."

"It's not my pardon you should be begging. It's Timothy McGee's."

"What?"

"You are the most incompetent shrink I've ever seen…and that's saying quite a lot because in my experience, shrinks aren't worthwhile anyway."

"How dare you?"

Gibbs got right in his face, forcing Dr. Leavitt to lean back against his desk. "You're only lucky that I'm content to yell in your face when I'd like to beat you to a pulp! I'm here to tell you that Timothy McGee will no longer be attending sessions with you. He is going to get better help elsewhere and if I have anything to say about it, you will _not_ be getting anymore recommendations from the Navy."

"Sir, I think you should calm down."

"Oh, I'm calm. If I wasn't, you'd know it…mainly because you'd be lying on the floor."

Dr. Leavitt swallowed nervously. "If Tim no longer requires my services, that's fine."

Gibbs let out a mirthless chuckle. "No longer requires your services? You ignored the big problem and focused on the least worrisome part of him. If your incompetence has damaged him in any way, I'll make sure you live to regret it."

"Is that a threat?"

"No. It's a promise," Gibbs hissed. Then, he turned around and walked out of the office, stopping to smile briefly at the secretary who looked positively terrified. Gibbs reminded himself that he'd have to tell Jenny he'd fired Tim's shrink. She might want to know.

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For Tim, the weekend actually passed quite uneventfully. He didn't get anything written, but he didn't have any major freakouts either which was a definite plus in his mind. He did spend a lot of time thinking about what had happened in the elevator, though. By Monday morning, he was still thinking about it. It had been different. What he did in the bathroom…that wasn't reliving…not exactly. The elevator…he shuddered thinking about it. It had been as though he were back…back in the bathtub, paralyzed, powerless…dying. He shook his head to rid himself of the feeling. He never could just look at it as though from a third party. He always had to see it from his own perspective…from the perspective of someone passively drowning. He shook his head again. That wasn't helping. His hands were already shaking again.

Tim looked over at his typewriter, the pages of the finished chapter laying in a neat pile. He walked over to it and picked up all but the first two pages. He looked at them…and then with sudden violence tore the pages into pieces. When he finished, he looked in surprise at what he had done and knelt down on the floor to pick up the shredded words. A week's worth of typing and he had rejected it, irrevocably. He couldn't take that back because it was his only copy. A few of the words leapt into his mind, although he tried not to think about what he had lost: _saved, once, healing, care, need_… Tibbs had talked McGregor into walking away from the railing. He hadn't decided where it was going to go from there, but he had resolved the situation. Now, all he had was the conversation about destiny. For some reason, it frightened him. He looked at his watch and cursed to himself. He would be late if he didn't leave right then. In frustration, he dropped all the pieces he'd picked up, letting the scraps of paper flutter to the floor. He pretended he didn't notice them and ran out the door.

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"Jethro, when I said that I would be a better therapist than Dr. Leavitt, I was not making a suggestion," Ducky protested as the two of them walked toward Jenny's office.

"Dr. Leavitt was the recommended psychiatrist. Do you really want to trust McGee with another one of their recommendations?"

"Well, no, but I am _not_ a certified psychiatrist, Jethro! I'm an ME and a forensic psychologist."

"And you have experience with the kind of problem McGee has right now."

"Yes, but Jethro…"

Gibbs stopped and turned around, forcing Ducky to stop as well. "It's been a month and a half. McGee wasn't that traumatized by his experience the day after it happened. He shouldn't be having that kind of flashback when he's been in therapy and supposedly dealing with it. I don't want to trust him to anyone else." Gibbs hesitated and then said, "Duck, when he was telling me about how he felt, I could _see_ it in his eyes. This is not going away. This is _not_ getting better. If anything, it's getting worse."

"I agree, Jethro, but I don't think that _I_ would be the best option."

"He trusts you, Ducky. He trusts you more than anyone else here, except maybe Abby. At this point, I think that would be a whole lot more important than a degree on the wall."

"Please, Jethro…I…"

"No, Ducky, let me ask you. Please, do this for McGee."

They were on the balcony still when Tim walked in. He didn't notice them but continued on to his desk oblivious to their presence. Once he got there, he threw his bag on the floor and then, sat down, pressing his hands to his head. They could see him shaking, even from up above. He sighed to himself and clenched his hands into tight fists, trying to stop the outward manifestation of his lingering fear. Then, he straightened and began to work.

Gibbs looked at Ducky and waited.

"All right, Jethro. I'll try…_but_ _I_ will make the decision as to whether or not I can be effective. If I decide it's too serious for me to handle, that's the end of it, all right?"

"Okay, Duck."

They walked into Jenny's office, prepared to do battle.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim absently started to flip through his files. He hadn't thought about cleaning out what he had during the last week…but now, he did have some extra time. Without thinking, he went to his old Smith case folders…they were empty. All the files seemed to have disappeared. Tim's eyes went wide and he started to panic…_more lost evidence_! He didn't know what to do and then, the elevator doors opened and Tony walked in.

"Morning, McGee," he said, not really looking at Tim. He carefully set his coffee down on his desk and began to idly flip through his docket.

"T-Tony?" Tim asked…his voice frightened.

"What, McGee?" Tony looked up and saw how pale Tim was. "What's wrong?"

"Th-the files…from the…the Smith case… They're gone. I didn't move them. I _promise_!" Tim stood up, looking for all the world like he was about to be arrested or something.

"Whoa…calm down, McGee. We moved all those folders. Ziva, Abby and I."

The feeling slowly crept back into Tim's legs and the room didn't seem to be closing in so badly. "Wh-why?"

"You solved case, Probie. It's no longer open. We packed everything up and sent it down with the others," Tony said, forcing himself to sound encouraging. Tim really looked scared.

"Oh…" Tim let out a rush of air and closed his eyes in relief. "I…I was so…so worried that…" he couldn't finish.

Tony suddenly understood. "Oh, you thought it looked like you had hidden them. No, McGee, we didn't think that. Don't worry so much."

_Easier said than done,_ Tim thought and then stiffened when his phone began to ring.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Is this true?" Jenny asked, shocked and disgusted.

"Unless you think McGee is lying," Gibbs said.

"I agree," Ducky added.

"This is…this is _awful_. I had no idea. Of course, I'll approve changing to another psychiatrist. Do you have one in mind?"

"Yes," Gibbs said, looking over at Ducky, who still appeared uncomfortable with the idea.

"Who?"

"Ducky."

Jenny looked over at Ducky, surprise evident on her face but, to Ducky's surprise, not rejection. "It's unorthodox, but how do you feel about that, Ducky?"

"I am willing…with reservations."

"What would those be?"

"First of all, I am _not_ a psychiatrist, and this could do more harm than good."

"I'm not worried about that."

"Well, allow me the space to worry…_and_ to change my mind if I decide it won't work."

"Granted. What else?"

"We should ask Timothy what he thinks. Some people feel more comfortable about revealing their weaknesses to strangers, even _with_ doctor-patient confidentiality. We should ask him and let him decide, letting him know, right off, that it is not required and that he will not be choosing between myself and Dr. Leavitt."

Jenny nodded. "Of course." She leaned over to her phone. "Cynthia? Please call down and ask Agent McGee to come up. Thank you."

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"Yes?" Tim asked.

"Agent McGee," Cynthia said, sounding, as usual, as though she knew some secret…which she probably did truth be told.

"Yes, Cynthia?"

"Director Shephard would like a word with you, if you have time."

"Of course. Now?"

"Yes."

"I'll be right up," Tim said and then hung up.

"What is it?" Tony asked.

"The director needs to see me."

"Have fun," Tony said, a mischievous grin on his face. He obviously saw no danger in the meeting. Tim, on the other hand, could only assume that it was going to be about his breakdown and that there were problems with his probation. What if they sent him home again?

He didn't show any of that. Rather, he just grinned at Tony's quip and mounted the stairs.

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Tim seemed very worried when he walked into the office and when he saw Gibbs and Ducky there as well, his eyes widened. However, he said nothing at first and Jenny wondered what he was thinking. Sometimes, she enjoyed letting people worry when they stood in front of her, but she couldn't do that to Tim. He looked brittle enough as it was.

"Agent McGee, Gibbs and Ducky have been telling me about what happened on Friday."

"I'm sorry, Director. I really didn't expect it. I'm sorry for what happened."

"Agent McGee, you're not in trouble."

"I'm not?" He seemed surprised.

"No, absolutely not. The fault does not lie with you. Allow me to ask you a question."

"Of course."

"Do you feel that your sessions with Dr. Leavitt have been helpful?"

"Well…" Tim hedged, obviously not wanting to express his feelings on the matter. "…they…they _were_ at first."

"And now?"

"I…hate going, but it's required. I still have nearly two months left."

"Your remaining sessions with Dr. Leavitt have been…" here Jenny glanced at Gibbs, smiling a little, "…cancelled. You will, however, need to finish them out with someone else."

"Yes, ma'am. Who will it be, then?"

"Well, we do have a suggestion, pending your approval. You are under _no_ obligation to take it. It is entirely your choice."

"Who?" Tim asked again, his face carefully blank.

"Dr. Mallard," she answered and then watched the expression on Tim's face change from one of confusion to understanding to deep relief…and then, oddly, to worry again. "Does that meet with your approval?"

Tim looked over at Ducky, as if verifying her statement. "Are you sure, Ducky? I don't want to make more work for you."

Ducky merely smiled. "On the contrary, Timothy, I would relish the opportunity to use my analytical skills on someone other than the dead and my mother. Her answers get quite repetitive, you know. This is not something you must accept or reject based on my feelings. I have already accepted. It is up to you. I will not be bothered either way." Ducky stopped and then spoke again. "I am not certified in psychiatry and I know that some people prefer to speak to strangers, but if neither of those statements bother you, then you have nothing to worry about."

Tim was silent, digesting the choice suddenly laying before him.

"Well?"

Tim slowly nodded. He wasn't happy, just relieved. It was apparent in every line of his face.

"Good," Jenny said. "I'll leave the two of you to work out the details."

Gibbs, who had said nothing up to that point, stood and asked, "Is that all?"

"Yes, Gibbs, I believe it is."

Gibbs turned to Tim and said briskly, "McGee, after you and Ducky work out your schedule, Abby told me she needs you down in the lab."

"Yes, Boss."

"Oh, by the by, Director, is there a possibility of using one of the conference rooms for our sessions?" Ducky asked. "Autopsy doesn't particularly present an inviting atmosphere…at least not to the living."

Jenny laughed. "Speak with Cynthia. I'm sure there's space above ground."

"Wonderful. Come, Timothy."

Tim followed Ducky out of the room. Gibbs stayed behind. When he and Jenny were alone, he said, "You'll be having Ducky report to you, won't you."

"Of course. Particularly the first meeting. I want to know his opinion… I'll let you know."

Gibbs just nodded and left.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they settled into two comfortable chairs, Ducky smiled at Tim's obvious unease. He didn't take any offense. He rather thought that Tim would be like this with anyone.

"Now, Timothy, you were meeting with Dr. Leavitt once a week, I believe?"

"Yeah, ninety minutes on Friday evenings."

"What was your usual pattern? Of course, every therapist will have his own procedure…although I suppose that makes little difference to you seeing as…"

"Ducky, I've had therapy before," Tim interrupted.

"Really? When, if you don't mind me asking?"

Tim's eyes flicked away for just a moment before settling on Ducky. "You have to understand…this was something that had been building for a long time, Ducky." Tim seemed to feel the need to defend himself, even before revealing what had happened. "I was barely nineteen. Most people were justing finishing their _first_ year of college, not their last. I didn't really have a large circle of friends. I had roommates, but we were…different. Different ages, different interests. They were there when it counted though."

"What happened?" Ducky repeated patiently.

"I had a nervous breakdown. It was around the middle of the semester and everything I had to do suddenly hit me. Instead of simply trying to scale back my schedule, I started working harder. I was terrified of not finishing on time, of failing." Tim actually laughed, although the memory obviously still pained him a little. "I get stressed easily anyway, but this was so much worse. It got to be too much and I completely lost it."

"By 'lost it' you mean?"

"I did all the stereotypical things overly-stressed people do. I was disconnected with reality, I had uncontrollable emotional outbursts. I was even hospitalized for a day or two."

"Why?"

"I had basically stopped eating and sleeping…because they took too much time out of my day."

"For how long?"

"I actually don't remember. Probably about a week. After the first few days, everything is pretty much blurred, even now. I went back later and looked at the 'work' I did during that time. It was gibberish. I wrote an entire paper, but to this day, I have no idea what it was that I thought I was saying. My roommates were the ones who got me help. They told me that they came back to the apartment one day and I was completely freaking out…and then, in the middle of that freakout, I collapsed. After I got out of the hospital, I went to one of the campus counselors for the rest of the year. She really helped me…_lower_ my expectations."

"I see."

"Can I ask you something?" Tim asked, a smile on his lips.

"Of course."

"Why do you say that? Dr. Leavitt said it. The other counselors did, too. You're not even certified and you're still saying it. Why?"

Ducky smiled. "Because one thing I do know is the need not to judge what the patient is feeling. _I see_ is an innocuous phrase that indicates understanding without judgment."

Tim nodded. "I see."

"So, now the real question is do you wish to meet before or after work?"

"What would be easier for you?"

"Timothy, it makes no difference to me."

"After, then."

"All right. Do Fridays still work for you?"

"Of course."

"Then, I will see you here on Friday."

"Okay, Ducky." Tim stood to leave.

"Timothy…"

"Yes, Ducky?"

"Did you accept me just to choose what you thought was the _correct_ option?"

Tim turned around and faced him. "No, Ducky. I didn't. If I had, I might have chosen to use someone else." He looked at the ceiling. "No, when I chose, I was thinking only of what I wanted, not of anything…or any_one_ else."

"Good. Until Friday, then."

Tim nodded and left.

Alone again, Ducky sighed and shook his head. "Oh, Timothy," he sighed. "What _have_ you done to yourself?"

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_Friday night…late…_

"So, Ducky? What do you think?" Jenny asked. She and Gibbs were seated across from Ducky as he gave his report on his first session.

"I think I had better stay on as his therapist because he _does_ trust me, but I have to tell you that Timothy is currently a confusing mass of contradictions."

"In what way?"

"In dangerous ways which is why I asked Gibbs to be here as well. If Timothy does have another breakdown, it will more than likely be under Gibbs' eye."

"Is it likely?"

"I am not sure. The problem is that Timothy is able to act as though nothing is wrong most of the time_. He_ may even think that nothing is wrong…but something is. I blame this on his previous therapist."

"Why?"

"Dr. Leavitt chose to emphasize Timothy's crime rather than the attack on him. He addressed the attack only as a result of what Timothy had done. While I can't believe that he _intended_ for Timothy to take it as he has, the consequence of that approach has put in Timothy's mind that he _deserved_ what Smith did to him, that it was a justified _punishment_ for withholding evidence. I am trying to bring that to the fore, but it can't be done all at once. I have to establish the right tenor for our sessions. Although he trusts me, he does not feel open to explaining his thoughts to me as yet. That will take time."

"So, if he does break down, what form will that take?" Jenny asked.

"It's hard to say. It could be something as simple as him yelling at Tony and Ziva again or it could be another flashback…or it could even take the form of an attempt at suicide. It really is difficult to predict. I just want you to be ready for it."

"Should we take him off active duty?"

"For his sake, no. That would be the worst possible course. Timothy would see that as confirmation that he has made an irrevocable error in judgment that has no possibility for forgiveness. Just be aware of him and his mental state."

"All right, Ducky. Keep me informed."

"Of course, Director."

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Tim read over what he had written. It was awful. Every page. He sighed and turned off the jazz. Then, he put each page carefully into the shredder. This wasn't working. He stared briefly in the direction of the bathroom.

"No. I wrote just fine before I started doing that." However, he sighed as he looked at the overflowing trashcan. He had not written a single worthwhile word the entire week. He was going to be in trouble soon if he didn't finish the chapter. He looked toward the bathroom again…


	27. Chapter 27

**Chapter 27**

_The next __Thurs__day…_

The water was getting louder. Tim hadn't really mentioned it to Ducky because he didn't know how to explain it. It wasn't that he actually thought he could _hear_ it. It was more that he…remembered the sound…all the time.

"Probie!"

Tim jumped. "What, Tony?"

"You looked like someone was walking over your grave," Ziva said, looking rather pleased with herself.

"Oh, no. Just thinking."

"Well, think in the truck," Tony said. "We've got a body."

Tim put his worries out of his mind. A new case! He was going with them! "Well, we _all_ have bodies, Tony."

Tony groaned. "Okay, that's bad, even for you, Probie. Obviously, all that thinking is not helping."

Tim shrugged and grabbed his bag. "I can't help it. I'm always thinking."

"You don't goof off enough. That's why."

"I agree," Ziva added. "You should take the time to stop and smell the posies."

"Roses."

"What's the difference?"

"Mostly the smell."

The doors closed, just as Gibbs got on, rolling his eyes. He looked over at Tim. It was like Ducky had said. He seemed okay, normal even…but his expression before they had started talking was anything _but_ okay.

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Tim was quiet in the truck…thinking. Ducky had told him to pay attention to how he felt during his various actions…to be aware of his emotions. It was important, he had said, to have that kind of self-awareness. So, Tim was doing his best. All he was feeling right now was a thread of excitement…with a thin undercurrent of nerves. In other words, he was feeling pretty normal. The feeling didn't really change when they pulled up to the house and began their investigation. The body lay on the front lawn in a pool of blood, a large shotgun on the ground beside it.

The sight of his first murder victim since his own near miss did give Tim a moment's pause…but only a moment. He stared at the body, feeling…surprised. He took note of the fact as he looked at the willful destruction of human life.

"McGee?"

Tim looked up from the body to find Ziva looking at him with a question in her eyes.

"Photos? Camera?" she asked.

Tim looked at his own hands. _I don't remember picking up the camera. How strange._

"Right," he said aloud and began to document the scene while Tony and Ziva did a search of the house.

When Ducky arrived, he watched Tim working and noticed no apparent trauma…which still worried him. He turned then to the dead body, noting the position of the shotgun, the direction and location of the entrance wound and the blood spatter. He knelt down to begin his onsite analysis.

"Well, Ducky?" Gibbs asked.

"I'll know more, of course, when I get him back to NCIS, but at this moment, I'm leaning toward suicide. GSR will tell you for certain, but the position of the gun, the apparent trajectory of the bullet would seem to indicate that he was holding the gun just under his chin."

"McGee, bag the gun," Gibbs directed. There was no movement from the figure staring at the house. Tim's back was to Gibbs and Ducky, which meant that they couldn't see his face. "McGee!"

Tim turned around quickly, his hands shaking as they held the camera. "Yes, Boss?"

"The gun?"

"Right," Tim hurried by Gibbs, pulled out a large evidence bag and put the gun in it.

"The house is clean, Boss," Tony reported as he and Ziva came out.

"Or it _was_ clean until you tripped over the litter box," Ziva said.

"It was right in the doorway! Who puts a litter box right in the place where people walk?"

"I'm assuming there is something worth listening to in all this?"

"We won't know definitely until we go over everything, but I grabbed his laptop, and there's no sign of an intruder. Would you like to do the honors, Probie?" Tony asked, holding out the computer to Tim.

Tim's hands were still shaking a little as he reached out to take it. Everyone noticed, but no one mentioned it. They also all saw him shiver once as he walked to the truck.

"What's up, Boss?"

"Ducky?" Gibbs asked.

"He's still readjusting, but beyond that, I will have to reserve judgment…just like with our poor lieutenant here." Ducky looked over to where Jimmy was just approaching Tim, a worried expression on his face.

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_Friday afternoon…_

Tim stared at the laptop screen, taking note of the _empty_ feeling he had, but showing nothing.

"What did you find, McGee?" Abby asked from behind him.

"The suicide note."

"Really?" She leaned over his shoulder and looked at it. "That is so _sad_. He shot himself because he felt alone?"

"Yeah," Tim agreed, looking at the screen. "And he thought the only way he could get attention was by dying."

Abby shook her head. "Was there anything else on there?"

"Nothing important. Tax information, some saved emails…from a few months ago. No hidden files, no dirty laundry. Based on what he has here, there wasn't much going on in his life at all."

The spectrometer finished its worked and Abby turned to it, smiling eagerly. "Positive for GSR. Looks like a duck and quacks like a duck…"

"And no one ever noticed," Tim added. "How could they not notice? He had friends, you know, or at least people who _said_ they were his friends. They didn't have any idea. This note…it's not addressed to anyone." He looked up at Abby, whose smile was fading. "If it were me, I'd have _someone_ I'd want to know about…my thoughts if nothing else. He didn't even have anyone he wanted to know about his death."

"Tim…"

Tim immediately backed off. "I'm not saying it's not suicide. Everything points to that, but…who's going to mourn this guy's death? No one. He's a soldier, and no one cared enough to make him feel needed." Tim looked back at the note. He pointed at the last lines. "This is from a poem by Sir Walter Scott. _An__d, doubly dying, shall go down/ __To the v__ile dust from whence he sprung,/ __Unwept, unhonored, and unsung_. No one who fought for their country should feel this way."

"You're right, Tim. It's true, but what can we do about that now? He's dead. Anything we might have been able to do…" She turned him around on the stool and widened her eyes in a silent question.

Tim sighed and smiled half-heartedly. "I know. I just don't get it." He nodded and Abby hugged him.

"Besides, Tim…"

"What?"

"Maybe he was a real jerk…"

Tim pushed her away and slugged her on the arm, smiling slightly.

"Ow! It's true! You know it," Abby said and smacked him back and felt relieved that the desolate look had disappeared from Tim's face.

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_Friday evening…_

"Sorry I'm late, Ducky," Tim blurted as he rushed into the conference room. "I had to finish up my report from that suicide…and then Abby kept talking."

"Quite all right. Catch your breath. I'm in no rush."

Tim took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"So, how was this case for you? It was the first case with your full involvement, correct?"

"Yeah." Tim shrugged. "It was okay."

Ducky smiled. "Care to elaborate?"

Tim laughed, a little chagrined. "I paid attention to how I felt, like you suggested."

"And?"

"And…it was strange." Tim was silent again, trying to marshall his thoughts. "I didn't really feel much. I expected to, but I didn't…not until I found his suicide note."

"What did you feel then?"

"I couldn't help wondering how someone could get to that point…and feel that the only solution is death. I mean…even when I thought I'd lost everything that I valued, I didn't want to die. I really didn't." Tim's eyes drifted to the window, lost in the memory. "Ducky?"

"Yes?"

"Can I ask you something?"

"Of course. That's why we're here."

"When will the nightmares go away?"

"Nightmares of what, Timothy? You mentioned them before, but not what was in them."

Tim's eyes drifted back. "There are two of them. One is me drowning. I can't distance myself from what happened. It's always…It's always me dying. I hate the feeling."

"Quite understandable. The other?"

"What?"

"The other nightmare?"

"Oh. Well…" Tim hesitated. "Well…it's not really a nightmare. Or at least, it shouldn't be. It's just water. Sometimes, it's just the sound. I used to like that sound, but now, whenever I hear it…I remember…and I don't _want_ to. I want to forget it. The worst…variation is when the water is still." Tim was looking at Ducky, but he wasn't seeing him. "It's deep and it's motionless. For some reason, that's the worst…the unmoving water. I woke up from that once, almost screaming. It took over an hour for me to get back to sleep. They haven't been as bad this week, but when will they stop?"

"That I can't tell you, Timothy. No psychiatrist could. I will agree with Dr. Leavitt in one aspect of this, however."

"What's that?" Tim asked, his eyes wary.

"These nightmares _are_ normal…but that does not mean they are unimportant. Part of your problem, Timothy, is the fact that you are trying to forget what happened. It won't work, and in the long run, it will probably only make things worse."

"How? How could it possibly be worse?" Tim asked, sounding frustrated.

Ducky gave him a sympathetic smile. "Timothy, think about this: You hid what you were doing with the murder of Joan Smith…_and_ with the serial killer." Tim winced. "I'm not bringing this up to make you feel guilty. You need to separate that from the illustration I'm making. What happened when you were confronted with your continued investigation…I mean as regarding your own feelings?"

Tim looked away from Ducky for a long while. He didn't like talking about this part…well, any part, actually, but this part in particular. If it hadn't been for the fact that Ducky had shown complete professionalism and discretion when it came to his therapy, Tim wouldn't have confided in him at all. As it was, he trusted Ducky and he knew that Ducky cared. That helped.

"I was…well, I acted…" he sighed, "…badly. I lost my temper and I shouted and insulted my friends. Inside, though, I felt guilty…although I tried to pretend I didn't."

"And what happened during the other case?"

"The same thing…only worse. With the cold case, I could justify not telling the others about it. It didn't involve them. It was over. I felt…awful about the…the other case…but I couldn't tell anyone because of what I had done."

"But your feelings came even though you tried to hide them."

"Yes."

"You felt trapped by your own actions, correct?"

"Yes."

"Compare your bursts of anger when you trying to hide your feelings to what happened when you finally confessed."

"It was different. It seemed…too calm for what I had been feeling."

"Yes, you see? When you hide things, they come bursting out, uncontrolled. If you voluntarily express how you feel, it diffuses. Do you understand?"

"My nightmares are because I kept things inside, Ducky," Tim said with a sardonic grin.

"No, Timothy," Ducky disagreed gently. "They are not the result of your mistakes. They are your mind trying to deal with a traumatic event. As long as you try and pretend that none of it happened and as long as you maintain your perception of guilt, it will be difficult for you to heal…in your mind."

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Tim's phone started ringing the moment he walked into his apartment. He looked at the display and groaned.

"McGee," he said.

"Timothy!" Just the name, nothing else, but Tim understood it right away.

"I'm sorry, Lyndi, really. I've just been having…some trouble writing."

"Timothy, I gave you a month's delay on all your deadlines. Almost dying is a good reason for not finishing chapters. 'Having some trouble' is _not_ a valid reason. You have deadlines. I have deadlines. We all have deadlines to meet. I _need_ the next chapter by Monday."

"Monday?" Tim blanched. "Lyndi, I'm not sure…"

His publisher interrupted briskly, "I don't care what you have to do, Timothy. I don't care what it takes. You need to finish that chapter and get the draft to me by Monday. Do you understand me?"

Tim sighed. "Yes, Lyndi, I understand."

"Good. The book is going well, Timothy. I'll be interested in seeing where you take it."

Tim rolled his eyes. "Okay…Monday."

"Good! Happy writing," she said and then hung up before Tim could say good-bye.

He didn't blame her for being short with him. He should have finished that chapter two weeks ago. However, he didn't understand why she persisted in saying that she was excited about his work. She didn't even really read it. All she cared about was getting another best-seller.

_So much for the weekend._ He knew what he had to do…but he didn't want to. The nightmares were less intense when he avoided the sound of water…but his muse wasn't working anywhere else. He had to…He nodded and began to wheel his typewriter into the bathroom again. Then, Tim jumped when his phone started ringing.

"McGee."

"Tim!"

"Hi, Abby," Tim said, happy to hear her voice, a momentary reprieve.

"Do you want to go out this weekend? You know, let our hair down…unwind from the stresses of the week?"

"I don't really have hair to…let down, Abby," Tim said.

"Oh, come on. It's long enough. Just don't style it. It gets all floppy."

Tim ran his hand through his own hair. "It is not long enough." Then, he sighed. "I really wish I could."

"But…?"

"But I just got off the phone with my publisher and she's threatening to lynch me if I don't get another chapter done by Monday."

"Oooh, do you need help?"

"Mental, probably, but no. If you came over, I wouldn't get _anything_ done," Tim said, grinning at her sound of mock-outrage.

"Fine. See if I ever invite _you_ anywhere again."

"Okay, Abby."

Abby blew a raspberry into the phone. "Have a nice weekend, Mr. Gemcity."

"I'll try."

"Bye, Tim."

"Bye, Abby." Tim hung up and looked at his bathroom. He set the phone on the floor, looked at it and then thought the better of it and turned it off. He could have simply put it out in his bedroom, but he was afraid that if he left, he wouldn't be able to bring himself to go back in…not with what he feared was coming. Even before he turned on the water in the bathtub, he could hear it, increasing in intensity with the increase of his worries, his fear. "I don't have a choice," he whispered and then reached out to turn on the tap.

As if a switch had been turned on in his head, Tim felt the words come. He sat down and began to type…

_"I have a destiny with these falls…" __Tim__ McGregor said and suddenly, he was years away from Tibbs and his attempts to bring him out of his dream. _

_He had almost died here once before, many years ago. No one knew about it. He had nearly died on this spot. He could still remember the feeling of being sucked down,__ of the water reaching out for him, welcoming him to an eternal resting place,__ although no one__ had ever__ believed him. His brother was to blame, of course. They had been playing around and the rough-housing had become too boisterous. The elder McGregor had shoved his younger brother against the railing. Instead of grabbing on, McGregor had flipped over the metal bars. Only his reflexes had saved him, for in the __first __moment of descent, his hand had flailed wildly against the edge of the bridge and had clung to the plank. _

_Of course, his brother had panicked and yelled for help…which had come quite quickly. However, McGregor had hung over the falls for about a minute before being pulled up. He could still remember that timeless moment…that moment in which a connection had been forged. He had babbled to his father how the water had tried to grab him and pull him down.__ They had all __chalked it up__ to his childish terror, but McGregor knew…from that moment on__ he knew that the water of the falls was inside of him. He couldn't get away from the roaring of the water and now it was calling him back. __The falls had let him go once…and now…now__ that he possessed only a wreck of a life__, they were calling him to return to their cold embrace.__ How could he refuse a second time?_

_Far below him, McGregor could see the water as it boiled and heaved like something alive. It crashed against the rocks, the water flowing endlessly into the riverbed below…_

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The ringing of the phone interrupted a pleasant dream and Gibbs nearly ignored it. But in the end, he couldn't ignore the phone, and he couldn't help but notice the time on his bedside clock... 3:26. He grumbled.

"Whoever this is, it had better be important..." he growled into the phone.

All he could hear was ragged breathing.

"Hello?" he asked.

A muffled sob was the only reply. He could hear water running in the background, but the only sound from the person on the other end was breathing. He pulled the phone away from his ear and looked at the display.

"McGee?"

The breathing briefly resolved into a single anguished word… "H-h-help…"

"McGee, where are you?" Gibbs asked, now fully awake and pulling on his clothes.

"B-Boss…" More fearful breathing. "…help…"

Gibbs put on his shoes and was out the door in record time, his keys in his hand, although he didn't remember picking them up. He jumped in his car and began driving north…toward Silver Spring, in the hopes that Tim was there.

"McGee, are you at home?"

There was no intelligible response, only a deep shuddering breath and an increase in the volume of the water.

"McGee!" Gibbs pushed the gas pedal and sped up again, praying that there were no police out at this hour…because there was no way he'd stop, not with Tim hyperventilating into the phone.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of hearing nothing but Tim breathing, Gibbs pulled into his parking lot. He breathed a sigh of relief when he saw that Tim's car was in its spot. He barely remembered to turn the key in his haste. At Tim's door, he tried the knob but didn't expect it to be open. It wasn't. He put his ear to the door. He couldn't hear anything.

"McGee, are you in your apartment?"

"C-Can't…get…out…"

"Okay, McGee, I'm coming in then." Gibbs bent over and picked the lock in record time. Once he got inside, he closed the door and pulled out his gun, not knowing what exactly to expect. He heard the water running and followed the sound, first into Tim's bedroom and then…into the bathroom. Even then, at first, he couldn't see Tim at all. What he did see was Tim's chair and his typewriter set up on the toilet seat. Type-filled pages littered the floor. He turned quickly and looked into the bathtub. Tim was there. The water was almost to the lip of the tub, and Tim was sitting in it, fully-clothed, the phone jammed tightly against his ear, his entire body shaking, one hand reaching out powerlessly toward the tap. His eyes were open wide in complete terror and he still took in loud gasping breaths.

Gibbs put his phone away and re-holstered his gun. Then, he leaned over and turned off the water. Tim didn't move, didn't even seem to realize that Gibbs was there. His breathing was so uncontrolled that his vocal cords vibrated slightly with each inhalation. Gibbs reached into the water to pull out the plug and was shocked by how cold it was. Immediately, he grabbed Tim under the arms and dragged him out of the tub, paying no attention to how much water sloshed onto the floor, nor how much dripped from Tim's soaked clothes onto his own. The phone dropped from Tim's fingers and clunked to the floor.

"McGee, what were you _doing_?" Gibbs asked, although one look at Tim's face told him not to expect an answer. Tim's skin was cold to the touch and he was shaking violently. He moved to Tim's dresser and searched quickly for dry, _warm_ clothes. "How long were you in the water?"

Tim's eyes stared blankly at the ceiling. "C-Can't get out…c-c-can't m-move…"

Gibbs began methodically stripping off all Tim's wet clothes. He appeared not to have submerged completely because there was a definite water line at his chest. Gibbs redressed him quickly, including thick socks, a pair of knitted woolen socks that Gibbs briefly had looked at, wondering where in the world they had come from. Tim was still limp and shaking as Gibbs pulled him into his bed and began piling blankets on him.

"Come on, McGee. Talk to me."

Tim turned unseeing eyes on Gibbs. "The water…it's…c-calling me…p-pulling me down…I'm d-dying."

"No, you're not, McGee. You're fine."

"L-leaning…s-see his face…the w-water…l-like a m-magnet…can't stay away…can't s-stop…always…s-s-so cold…water…everywhere…nowhere…s-safe…"

Gibbs stood and walked into the kitchen. He began to look through Tim's cupboards, seeing what was there. He opened one cupboard and was surprised to see a jello mix. He nearly passed it by, but then, decided it was probably the best option and began heating water. He went back into the bedroom. Tim had not moved, but he was still mumbling incoherently.

"Can't…can't stay…away…d-destiny…w-water…reaching…pulling me down…c-can't be s-saved…n-not even…Tibbs…"

At the name of his character, Gibbs stopped and looked back toward all the pages lying on the floor in the bathroom. The microwave dinged and Gibbs went back to the kitchen. Quickly, he mixed in the jello and carried the whole container into the bedroom.

"…d-death…only way…n-nothing…can do…"

Gibbs sat down beside Tim and pulled him into a sitting position. He was still shaking, but Gibbs couldn't tell whether it was due to cold or to fear.

"Okay, McGee. Drink this." He held the hot liquid to Tim's lips. Slowly, agonizingly slowly to Gibbs, Tim drank, spluttering occasionally, but he stopped talking and after about an hour the shaking began to diminish. "What happened, McGee? What's wrong?"

Tim began to shake again…this time with repressed tears.

Gibbs set the empty container on the sidetable. "Let it out, McGee. It's okay."

"I have to die, Boss!" Tim burst out suddenly and dissolved into body-shaking sobs. He tried to speak again, but he couldn't stop the tears long enough to get more words out. He cried, clinging mindlessly to Gibbs as he cried and cried. He sobbed long after he ran out of tears. Gibbs let him cry. He held Tim until he finally fell asleep. Then, he eased the unconscious figure down onto the bed and went into the bathroom to find out what had happened.


	28. Chapter 28

**Chapter 28**

The sun shone on Gibbs' closed eyes. He opened them and was momentarily confused by his surroundings. He sat up in the chair, which had doubled as his bed, and felt a stack of paper slide off his lap into a jumble on the floor. _Oh, yes. McGee's apartment._ He looked over at the unmoving pile of blankets that concealed Tim and then at the papers he had organized a few hours before. He grimaced as he thought of the length of time he had spent and would be spending examining these few pages. He hadn't spent so much time on the entirety of _Deep Six_. _Okay, Thom Gemcity, you'd better have something to say about Timothy McGee_, he thought as he began to read.

His worries began with the first pages. Tim's obsession with water had been recreated in his McGregor character. The guilt, the fear, they were now a part of McGregor's personality and Gibbs couldn't help but wonder if this was Tim writing it as a piece of fiction or as an insight into his soul. His concern only grew worse as he continued to read. He didn't need a degree to tell that there was something very wrong…

_…"It's not what I want that matters, Tibbs," McGregor said slowly, dreamily. "I should have died here before. I was granted a reprieve. Now that my life has been destroyed, I have to repay the debt." _

_Tibbs was slowly edging closer. He was almost close enough to touch McGregor. …almost, but not quite. He had always worried about being able to keep his team safe. That was the responsibility of the leader, but now, Tibbs f__eared that in one fell swoop, his__ entire team would be lost forever…three to the sniper's bullets and one to the waters. The thundering of the water seemed to eat away at his brain, making him feel helpless to save those around him. He had tried. Oh, how he had tried to get to McGregor before he did something __desperate__. He hadn't been able to stop him from getting revenge, from killing. Now, he may not be able to stop him from dying.__ McGregor kept leaning further and further, almost as if he were reaching out for a hand to lead him downward…_

This, as disturbing as it was in its eerily accurate assessments, was nothing compared to what happened a few pages later…because Gibbs had the opportunity to actually _read_ Tim's breakdown as it happened.

_Tibbs tried to hold McGregor back. He was so close … … …… ……… … … … … … … … … … …I can't stop him. He won't ever come back. Nothing can stop this, nothing. Nothing ever…__I see him there…leaning over me…he's there…like a demon…in a form of a man. How he delights in tormenting me__. He could have killed me any way he wanted to. I'm helpless…which is the point. He rubs my face in my own vomit and enjoys my powerlessness. Every moment…I'm so aware of the danger, of the…the evil. I see it all. I feel it. I'm a prisoner…as I have betrayed all I am…so am I betrayed by my body…__…………………………………………………………_

_So close that he couldn't figure out how McGregor had been able to get away, to lean far enough forward that he fell over the edge. Somehow, Tibbs managed to get a hold of his arm, throwing himself forward onto the hard wood of the bridge, feeling the splinters as they gouged his arms._

_"McGregor! Give me your other hand!" Tibbs yelled. McGregor hung limply from Tibbs' grasp unable…or unwilling to save himself.asdfl ;a;lf ;asoiewaaxv a;lsd .asdfa .I can feel the water, creeping up my legs.__asd soapowm__ It's like when I was a kid, laying in the bathtub and letting the water get closer and closer to my face, sitting up at the last possible moment…only this time there is no last possible moment, no way to sit up and make it a game, no way to stop…I feel the water inside me. I'm screaming without words, without sound. I'm screaming and screaming and no one can hear__, no one…I'm alone…alone inside my head, only__ my killer for company…__only the water…__he's always there…even when he's gone. I still know who has the power and it is not me. The water takesovereverypartofmewithoutpauseitrushesintomylungsmystomachmybrainmyearseverypartofmeissaturatedwithoitaadf asda dI can't get away from it. It's insidemy haed and I must die.lasd;a __ldsl..as; .a_

Gibbs looked over the last page and had trouble reading it as Tim moved from fiction to recollection, from sanity to insanity. The last sentence, broken as it was, revealed what he had been thinking. He had said as much to Gibbs. He had said that he had to die…not that he _wanted_ to, but that he _had_ to. What did that mean? Nothing of Tim's revelations before had indicated this depth of inner turmoil. Tim had been having difficulty, yes. That was clear, and expected, but this…this _insanity_ that seemed to have taken over him never had come up in any aspect of his life since he'd come back to work. Gibbs looked again at the lump where Tim still slept. Then, he looked back and reread the final sentence: _It's inside my head and I must die._ Why? Gibbs didn't like unanswered questions and he knew that Tim's life might depend on answering the why. He leaned back in the chair to wait for Tim to wake up.

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Tim opened his eyes slowly. It was very bright, quite a different view from what he last remembered seeing…of course, right now, he couldn't see much, mostly blankets…and sunlight. _What time is it?_ He could feel the comforting, warm weight of them. He shivered slightly. The cold seemed to have taken root in his bones. He didn't want to move or think…ever again. He could feel the world creeping up with all its troubles and he wanted no part of it. The sun was so bright that he closed his eyes and tried to burrow further down into the blankets, searching for the warm comfortable feeling he'd had before.

"McGee?"

Tim's eyes opened wide at the voice.

"B-Boss?" he said timidly, not moving from his cocoon.

"Were you expecting someone else?" came the amused reply.

Tim still didn't sit up. "No. I wasn't really expecting anyone." That wasn't _exactly_ true. The memory of last night was coming back…as much as he wanted to avoid it.

"Really."

Tim chose not to reply. If it wasn't a question, he didn't have to answer it.

"How are you feeling?"

_Drat! A real question._ Tim took a deep breath and let it out slowly before answering. "Okay, I guess. I'm still a little cold." _Sitting in cold water will do that to you._

"Why don't you sit up?"

_Another real question…with a request attached. I can either sit up or I can give my reasons for not wanting to._ Tim sat up, pulling the blankets with him and wrapping them securely around his shoulders. There was Gibbs, sitting on his chair…_Oh, no! He has my chapter!_ Tim thought with dread, but he didn't mention it. Neither did Gibbs.

"Why don't you go and take a hot shower. That will help you warm up. I'll make some coffee."

The presence of Gibbs in his apartment was so strange that Tim really didn't know how to reply to the very normal conversation they were having. He settled on a _non sequitur_.

"What time is it?" he asked, twisting around so that he could see his clock.

"1300 hours."

"One o'clock? In the afternoon?" Tim turned the rest of the way to confirm that, yes, he had indeed slept that long.

Gibbs stood up. "Take a shower," he said again and began to leave the room. "Feel free to shout if you have any trouble."

With that last piece of advice, he was gone, leaving Tim to look toward his bathroom and wonder what he'd find in there. He shivered a little. _I can't stay in bed. There are a few things I do need to do._ Finally, he pulled the blankets off him, shivering in earnest as the relatively cool air of his room hit him. He looked down at himself. These weren't the clothes he'd been wearing last night. He looked at the lumpy woolen socks. They were really very warm in spite of their rather lackluster appearance. Sarah had briefly fallen prey to the knitting craze and the socks had been her first successful project…using the term _successful_ very loosely. He stood, swayed a little as the blood rushed back to his head. He then stumbled into the bathroom and was surprised. It was clean, orderly. There was no water on the floor…no typewriter on the toilet seat. The bathtub was empty. Gibbs hadn't done all this…had he?

Tim turned on the water and watched the welcome steam begin to rise. Maybe that was why he could shower without difficulty. The water was hot, not cold…that cold that seemed to take over and…_ No. Don't think about that._ Instead, he got into the shower and basked in the cascade of hot water on his overly-chilled body. He closed his eyes and just let the water flow over him. He didn't want to think about last night. He didn't want to think about last month. He didn't want to think. Period. Twenty minutes later, he began to feel guilty for being in there so long and reluctantly turned off the water. He dried off and dressed quickly in an attempt to keep the cold from touching him again. _I don't ever want to be cold again_, he thought as he pulled back on Sarah's lumpy socks. She'd be thrilled he was getting so much use out of them. Twice in about three months of ownership. As he walked back into his bedroom, he grabbed a blanket off the bed, wrapped it around his shoulders and headed for the door to the living room. He opened it just as Gibbs was reaching out for the knob.

"Here, McGee," he said, holding out a mug.

"Thanks, Boss." _Man, this is awkward._

"Have a seat," Gibbs said, pointing peremptorily to Tim's bed. "We need to talk."

"O-Okay, Boss." He sat down and took a sip, feeling rather self-conscious with Gibbs staring at him.

"So, what happened?"

Tim took another drink. He had known that this would come up eventually. The very fact that Gibbs was here spoke volumes. "In what respect, Boss?"

"I want to know why you were trying to kill yourself, McGee," Gibbs said, bluntly.

Tim nearly choked on his coffee in his haste to deny that statement. "I _wasn't_. I wasn't, Boss. That…that wasn't what I was doing."

"What would you call it then?"

Tim shrugged, not wanting to think about it.

Gibbs leaned forward. "No, McGee. I'm not going to let you hide from it this time. Do you realize what state you were in when I got here?"

"I…" Tim began.

"You were on the verge of stage two hypothermia. What do you think would have happened if I hadn't been here? People don't just brush off that kind of thing."

"It…it wouldn't have gotten that far, Boss. I wouldn't have…"

"Do you really think so, McGee?"

"I don't want to die, Boss," Tim said very firmly.

"If that's the case, then tell me what happened. Tell me what possessed you to get into that tub. How long were you in there?"

"I…I don't…I don't know," Tim said. Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "I don't! I remember getting in. I remember…trying to…get out, to turn off the water…but I don't really remember how long." The water roared in Tim's ears, nearly blocking out the real sound of Gibbs' next order.

"Start at the beginning, then," Gibbs said and saw Tim's eyes going distant. "McGee!"

Tim blinked and reconnected. "The beginning…"

"Yes. What put you in the bathroom of all places?"

Tim took a long drink, ignoring how the hot liquid seemed to scald his throat. It was nice to feel too _hot_ for once.

"I'm waiting, McGee."

"I was writing, Boss."

"Yes, I caught that," Gibbs said, his frustration becoming very obvious.

"I can't…I don't know how to explain it."

"You've been saying that to put us off ever since this case started. Try using words, McGee. You're not getting out of it."

Tim swallowed and met Gibbs' gaze briefly. It was too stern. His eyes dropped to the mug in his hands.

"I can't write without it anymore," he said finally.

"Without what?"

"Without the water."

Gibbs leaned forward again. "I thought you didn't like it."

"I don't. I hate it. I hate hearing it. I hate remembering it. I hate everything about it, but I can't get away from it anymore, Boss. It's everywhere." Tim hunched his shoulders, ashamed at his admission. "It's as though…as though it's a…a part of me now. I know it doesn't make sense. It sounds crazy. But it's…it's how I feel."

"So, you were in the bathroom, writing."

Tim didn't know what to make of Gibbs' lack of comment on what he'd just said. Tim also couldn't decide if he were relieved that someone was forcing him to say these things or if he was furious that Gibbs was making him relive something he just wanted to forget.

"And it was just like all the other times."

"_What_ other times?"

Tim flinched at the annoyance in Gibbs' voice.

"I told you, Boss," Tim said, actually feeling a little teary. "I can't write without it. Everything I've written that I've kept since the…since…"

"Say it, McGee. I'm not going to help you out."

"Since I almost died," Tim said in a rush. "It's all been done in there."

"And?"

"And…I get…overloaded, I guess. The sound…it…it's…" Tim trailed off again as the sound of the water in his head intensified.

"So, what happened this time?"

Tim was thrust back into the nightmare of the night before. He couldn't even type. He would drift off on the power of the water in the tub and come back to find that he'd gone on typing anyway. Most of it was meaningless, but he had less and less control over his own thoughts.

"McGee…"

Tim struggled to maintain coherency while relating a completely _in_coherent event. "The water…it's like a magnet. I can't stay away. That's how I got that bump on my head. I was watching the water. I've spent the whole night in the bathroom, just listening to it flowing. I'd stayed away for the whole week, but then, Lyndi called…"

"Your publisher?"

Tim nodded. "…I had to finish. I thought that maybe if I could just get it all out and get McGregor away…away from the falls that I could move away from the water, too. I was writing. I was just writing and then…" Tim looked at Gibbs again, pleading with him for understanding. "I tried to get out, Boss. I _tried_." Tim's eyes filled with tears. "I didn't want to be in there. I didn't. I didn't…but I couldn't…I can't stay away. I can't get away from it. The water's everywhere…everywhere and nowhere because I _know_ that I'm not really hearing it, but it doesn't matter because the sound is still there…and I'm paralyzed…I'm helpless when I hear it. It's like I've been drugged again and I…I have to…"

"So why is it that you have to die?" Gibbs asked, interrupting Tim.

"I don't _want_ to die, Boss!" Tim cried. "How many times do I have to say it?"

"That's not what I asked, McGee and not what you said this morning." Gibbs said.

Tim looked away.

"Look at me, McGee!"

Tim's eyes moved reluctantly back.

Gibbs spoke very slowly and very clearly. "You told me that you _had_ to die, not that you wanted to. I believe that you don't want to…so why do you _have _to?"

Tim looked away again.

"Talk to me, McGee!" Gibbs yelled. "The next time, I might be too late. The next time, you might not have the presence of mind to even ask for help. You'll _die_, McGee. Do you understand? You. Will. _Die_. You just said that you don't want that. So, you need to talk to me and tell me why you think you _have_ to."

Tim pulled his legs up to his chest. He didn't answer but began to rock slightly, tears leaking from his eyes.

Gibbs didn't back down. He picked up a page from _Rock Hollow_ and read it aloud: "_Far below him, McGregor could see the water as it boiled and heaved like something alive. It crashed against the rocks, the water flowing endlessly into the riverbed below. McGregor could see the hand reaching out to him, ready to end it all, ready to help him cease his tortured existence__…"_

"Stop!" Tim yelled, his hands to his ears. "That's not me! It's fiction! It's only a story!"

"Is it, McGee? Are you sure?"

Tim was shaking, the mug had fallen from his hands and spilled it contents onto his blankets. He didn't notice.

"It's not me," he whispered.

"If that isn't, then what about this," Gibbs said and pulled out another page. "_I still know who has the power and it is not me. The water takes over every part of me. Without pause it rushes into my lungs, my stomach, my brain, my ears__ every part of me is saturated with it. I can't get away from it. It's inside my head and I must die."_

"Stop…stop, please," Tim whimpered.

Gibbs looked up. "Is that fiction, Tim? Is it?"

"Stop, stop, stop," Tim whispered.

"No, Tim. I won't. Answer the question."

Tim began sobbing. "It's not…"

"It's not what?"

"It's not fiction. It's me. It's me! It's _all_ me!" Tim began rocking again, his head hidden in his arms.

Gibbs got up and walked to the bed. He sat down beside Tim. Slowly, he put a hand on Tim's shoulders to stop the rocking.

"Why, Tim. Why do you think you have to die?" he asked softly.

Tim said something incomprehensible.

"Sit up, Tim. Tell me."

"It's the only way to stop it…"

"Stop what?"

"My punishment," Tim said.

Gibbs waited silently.

"I thought…I thought, at first, that my punishment was to die, but it wasn't. It was…" Tim broke off, breathing heavily as he tried to regain control. "…it was the feeling of dying. It was feeling the water killing me. Death was a release. Death was easy. Dying was hard. And now, I feel like I'm always dying. I wake up in the night, feeling the water, hearing it…and there's no way to stop it. Smith punished me. That's what he was doing. He was punishing me for my incompetence. Real or perceived doesn't matter anymore. It's the punishment, the neverending punishment. Death is the only way to stop it. He said that horror and mortal terror had to be either my friends or my enemies. They're my enemies and I fear them. The only way to get the water out of me is for me to die."

Gibbs didn't say anything for a long time. He kept his hand on Tim's shoulder.

Tim's head sank back to his knees as he spoke again. "That's why I keep listening to it. I think that just maybe, this time I can stop dying. Don't you see, Boss? I don't want to die. I don't. I don't want my life to be over…but I can't bear dying over and over again."

"You're wrong, Tim. Death is not the only way to end it."

"I've tried, Boss. I've tried to stop it. I tried confronting it. I tried talking about it. I tried ignoring it. I tried living with it. I _can't_! I can't do any of it. Death is the only way out."

"Who have you told about this besides me?"

"I tried to talk to Dr. Leavitt. He listened…the first time."

"Since then?"

"He said that it would go away, but it hasn't! He said that once I understood why it had happened that it would get easier. It's not easier. It just gets worse because I can't hold it back! I'm not strong enough to fight it anymore."

Gibbs shook his head in dismay. To think they had all thought that Tim's guilt was the biggest problem. It certainly was a _part_ of the problem, but Tim was facing a much greater challenge than any of them had expected…and he'd been doing it alone because he didn't know to ask for help this time. He was as alone as he'd been during the initial near drowning.

"That's because you shouldn't _have_ to fight it alone, Tim."

"How else?" Tim asked.

"With us helping you. There's nothing that says you have to deal with these things on your own. We messed up…we really messed up. I can't tell you how much I regret that. You were alone with Smith the first time, but you don't have to be alone now."

"I…I don't?" Tim's question was a pitiful hope for help.

"No, Tim. You don't. You just need to ask…like you did this morning."

Tim was quiet except for the shuddering breaths, silent tears still rolling down his cheeks. "Boss?" he asked finally.

"Yes, Tim?"

"I…I need help."

"You've got it." Gibbs put his arm around Tim's shoulders let him cry for a while longer…while he decided what to do.


	29. Chapter 29

**Chapter 29**

Ducky was silent on the other end of the line when Gibbs finished describing what had happened. Reducing Ducky to silence was such a rare event that Gibbs was automatically worried. He walked back to where he could see into the bedroom. Tim hadn't moved. He was just sitting on his bed, leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees…as he had been ever since Gibbs had left to call Ducky.

"Well, Ducky? What do you think?"

"By rights, we should really have him admitted to suicide watch. With what he's told you, there is more than enough cause."

Gibbs opened his mouth, but Ducky beat him to it.

"Before you jump all over me, Jethro, I wouldn't actually recommend that as a course of action. I do not think it would help Timothy in the slightest."

"Then, why did you even bring it up?"

"To impress upon you how serious this is…in case, you weren't aware," Ducky said, the smallest hint of amusement in his tone.

"I know it's serious, Ducky."

"Good, because Timothy should _not_ be left alone for any reason."

"For how long?"

"At least the weekend. We can see how he is on Monday, but his intense reaction will probably be repeated if he is left to his own devices."

"I should call…"

"No, Jethro. Don't call Abigail," Ducky said, cutting him off.

"Why not, Duck?" Gibbs asked, suddenly dreading where the conversation was no doubt heading.

"Because, as I think you know, Timothy needs someone he can trust right now."

"He trusts you and Abby a whole lot more than he trusts me."

"If that is the case, then why is that he chose to call _you_ for help, Jethro? He did not call me, his current therapist, nor did he call Abigail, his very close friend. He called you, his boss. He has opened up to you, not anyone else. If you were to pass him off to me or to any one of us, it will seem to him as though he has been rejected…again."

"Ducky…"

"Jethro, you were able to get through to him. I couldn't do that, not as his therapist." Ducky paused. "How _did_ you do that?"

Gibbs chuckled briefly. "By being combative."

"Of course…why should I have expected anything different?"

"Ducky, I don't really think that McGee wants me here all weekend. He's already uncomfortable with the fact that I'm still here."

"Don't even address it. Just stay. Based on what you've told me, Jethro, he'll be so glad to have someone there to keep him alive that he won't say anything. If he does, just say that you're staying. Be honest. He knows now how serious his problem is and that will help him to keep the right perspective."

Gibbs sighed softly to himself. Ducky heard him.

"Jethro, I know this is not what you wanted for your weekend, but…Timothy needs you right now."

"Understood," Gibbs said tersely and hung up.

"Boss?" Tim said timidly from behind him.

Gibbs turned around quickly. Tim looked like a rung-out sponge. A soft breeze could knock him over. As he stared at Tim, he suddenly remembered who had been trying to save McGregor in _Rock Hollow_: Tibbs. Granted, from what he could tell, the other characters had been at death's door, but still, it was Tibbs, not Tommy or Lisa or Amy or any of the other ridiculous pseudonyms Tim had used to cover up his characters. Tim put a lot of himself into his writing, even when he _wasn't_ freaking out…and he had chosen the character he based on his boss to be the one to be there. Maybe Ducky _was_ right…as usual. Maybe Tim really _did_ trust Gibbs more than he thought.

"What, McGee?"

"I…" He looked very uncomfortable. "…could I ask you something?"

"Go ahead."

"It's just…" Tim looked at his feet. "Never mind." He turned to go back into his room.

"What, McGee? You asked for help. I said I would. What is it?"

Tim didn't turn back. "I…I still need to finish."

"Finish what?"

"My chapter. It has to be done by Monday."

"And?"

"And…I don't…know if I can do it by myself," he said in a rush.

"I'm not a writer, McGee," Gibbs said, a wry grin on his face.

Tim looked at his feet again and still didn't turn around. "I know, Boss."

"McGee, turn around."

Tim did, but he didn't look up.

Gibbs rolled his eyes and struggled not to sigh audibly. "McGee, look at me."

Tim raised his eyes to Gibbs' and looked nervous.

"Okay, _now_ you can elaborate."

Tim's eyes flicked away from Gibbs and then back to him again. "I don't want to be any trouble…"

"McGee, we've already established that I'm here to help."

"Yes…but…" Tim seemed to be in real difficulty. Gibbs was ready for his request, but he wanted Tim to actually _say_ the words.

"But what?"

"I have to finish this chapter, and I don't know if I can…I need someone to be here in case I…" Tim blinked away tears. "…in case I…do that again."

"Do what, McGee?"

Tim inhaled deeply. "In case I start…" He let out the air slowly. "…dying again."

"I'll be here, Tim," Gibbs said.

Tim looked surprised at Gibbs' easy assent, but instead of answering, he walked to the typewriter and began to move it.

"What are you doing, McGee?"

Tim turned around, looking frightened. "I told you, I _have_ to finish this."

"You can't do it in there, McGee."

"I don't have any other choice, Boss." Tim squared his shoulders. His voice trembled, and he was still pale, but his eyes took on a determined edge that Gibbs was actually happy to see. "My writing is a job. Just like NCIS. I have a deadline to meet."

"I thought you liked your writing, McGee."

"I do…most of the time. I like NCIS, too. I love my jobs, Boss. Otherwise, I wouldn't have them…and I _need_ to finish this chapter, even if…if it means I have to go back in there."

Gibbs walked around in front of the chair, picked up the typewriter and dumped it back on the writing desk. Then, he pointed to the chair. "Sit!"

Tim's eyes widened and he did so. Gibbs went over to the computer and pulled the computer chair over by the desk so that he was facing Tim.

"Nothing like that is worth dying for, McGee. At the end of the day, what is it that you think you're doing?"

Tim looked at his typewriter and then down at his hands…which were shaking again.

"Why do you write?"

Tim looked up, a line of confusion across his forehead. "Why?"

"Yes, McGee. Why?"

To his surprise, Tim smiled. "You might as well as me why I breathe. Writing is a part of me, Boss. It always has been. It's an…outlet for my thoughts."

"Then, how much of this novel is about you and how much of it is about Tibbs and McGregor and Tommy and Lisa?"

Tim flushed. "It's been different lately. In _Deep Six_ I hinted at some sort of childhood trauma that had happened to McGregor." At Gibbs' expression he repeated, "To _McGregor_, not to me. I hadn't really decided what to do with it and then…when I rewrote _Rock Hollow_…"

"You rewrote it?"

Tim nodded, looking ashamed again. "After…after Landon killed my characters and almost killed Abby. I had to change it. I kept some of the characters the same, but I changed a lot of the plot." He let out a soft laugh. "It was almost prophetic."

"Tell me."

"Why? As you said, this doesn't really matter in the long term. I know it's not a classic, for all the popularity it has now."

"Because it matters to _you_, McGee. That matters."

Gibbs was surprised to see Tim's eyes fill with tears, tears that he hurriedly brushed away, but tears nonetheless. Was he so surprised?

Tim hands were still shaking as he began to describe the plot of his story. He stopped fidgeting and instead of looking nervous, he began to seem…frightened. "One of the…the, uh, bad guys became obsessed with McGregor, but instead of stalking McGregor, he decided to force an investigation to get him to come to him. He and his friend then decided to hurt McGregor by hurting his friends. They tried to kill them all one day in the rain. McGregor was right there when they got shot. Tommy and Lisa are still in critical condition and Amy is still seriously injured. McGregor realized who it was, but he didn't have any evidence. Instead of taking it to T-Tibbs, he became a vigilante, determined to take them down himself."

"And?" Gibbs asked, when Tim didn't go on.

"And…the worst happened, he succeeded. McGregor cornered the two men and was forced to kill one of them." Tim's eyes were distant. "After that, the other guy was taken to prison, but McGregor was kind of left in limbo. He wasn't sure of his position in his work, his friends were hovering at death's door, he had killed a man for revenge. What was left of him, of who he had thought he was? He couldn't see anything. And when he felt lost, he was drawn to the falls. He went to Rock Hollow to think, but the falls were always there. It was a place he _had_ to go. That's where Tibbs found him, being pulled down, inextricably down into the water." The shaking grew more pronounced and Tim appeared less connected to reality. "Tibbs was there to save him, but McGregor had to _want_ to be saved…and he didn't know if he did."

Gibbs stood up and turned Tim around so that he faced his typewriter. Tim didn't seem to notice.

"So, save him, McGee," Gibbs said quietly and lifted Tim's hands to the keys. "Save him."

As if hypnotized, Tim didn't move. "I don't know how."

Quickly, Gibbs ran into Tim's bedroom and grabbed the last page of actual story, then ran back to the writing desk. "Tibbs tried to keep McGregor from going over the edge," he said and then he read the words Tim had written, "_So close that he couldn't figure out how McGregor had been able to get away, to lean far enough forward that he fell over the edge. Somehow, Tibbs managed to get a hold of his arm, throwing himself forward onto the hard wood of the bridge, feeling the splinters as they gouged his arms._

_"McGregor! Give me your other hand!" Tibbs yelled. McGregor hung limply from Tibbs' grasp unable…or unwilling to save himself._"

Tim still didn't move. He seemed frozen in position, his hands hovering over the keys, his eyes seeing a million miles away…obviously hearing the water, even without it flowing.

"How are you going to save him, McGee?"

"I can't," he said, quietly. "Nothing can save him if he doesn't want to be saved."

"Tibbs is trying," Gibbs said urgently, wondering all the while if he was making a big mistake by doing this. "No one else can finish this, McGee. Only you can do it. Write. Save McGregor. Don't let him fall."

Tears poured down Tim's cheeks as he stared at the blank page in the typewriter. "Sometimes, falling is the only way."

"No. It never is. That's the way for people who give up. Is McGregor giving up?"

"He doesn't know how to fight anymore."

"That's why he's not alone."

"He can't."

"Yes, he can. All you have to do write it. McGregor doesn't have to save himself, but he does have to be a part of it. Tibbs can't hold on forever."

"I know." Tim's voice was full of longing. A longing for it all to be over.

"So do it." Tim still didn't move and Gibbs repeated his order more loudly. "Do it, McGee!"

Tim's fingers began to move, typing slowly at first and then picking up speed. He began to say the words out loud as he typed. Gibbs sat beside him and listened.

_Tibbs felt his grip slipping. He knew it was only a matter of time before he lost McGregor, lost him to the guilt in his mind, lost in the maze of the contradictions he saw in his life. There was nothing __Tibbs__ could do…unless he could get McGregor to help __him__ save him._

_"McGregor! Look at me! Don't look down there!"_

_McGregor's gaze was lost in the water, in the spray as it washed his face__ maybe he__ would finally be rid of the blood that stained it. Tibbs looked frantically at the connection between them, at the hand that was so inexorably slipping from his grasp._

_"McGregor! Don't make me watch you die!" Of all the things that Tibbs didn't think he could bear, it was watching another person die in front of him. He had seen too much__ of__ that already__, too much of that was already on his conscience__. To his surprise, McGregor looked up, but his eyes…he might already be dead for all they saw.__ "You don't have to die! No one wants that, not even you!"_

_McGregor blinked and looked at him…shocked at his position. "Tibbs…I…"_

_"Give me your hand, McGregor!"_

_"No, Tibbs…I can't. Please, just let me go," McGregor begged him._

_"I can't do that, McGregor, and you know it."_

_"Please…please, I can't do it anymore, Tibbs. I can't."_

_"I won't let you go, McGregor. You'll have to let go of me. I won't make the decision for you."_

_"I don't have to make a decision. It will happen…as it should have years ago. I don't want you to see it."_

_"I will, McGregor. I'll see it. You shouldn't have died before and you shouldn't die now. Give me your other hand!"_

_Tears poured down McGregor's cheeks. He looked down again and then up at Tibbs._

_"Do you want to die, McGregor?" Tibbs shouted._

_McGregor was silent and Tibbs felt his grip slip a little more. It was almost too late._

_"No!" McGregor shouted suddenly and lifted his hand which had been dangling uselessly and grabbed Tibbs' other arm. Tibbs pulled__ mightily and hauled McGregor upward. In seconds, the situation went from hopeless to…something else. For when McGregor was safely back on the bridge, rather than standing or even thanking Tibbs for his help, he lay lifelessly on the rough wood, feeling it beneath him, feeling the stability…and he began to sob like a child. Refusing all comfort, all other help, he sobbed and sobbed because he felt like he had failed the final test. He had chosen to live; he wanted to live and he had no business wanting that._

"McGee," Gibbs said quietly. He didn't want to stop whatever was going on in Tim's mind because, based on the words he was uttering, it seemed to be helping, but he was still worried that it wasn't enough. Tim didn't acknowledge his address. He seemed lost in the world he had created. Gibbs didn't know if that was normal for Tim. As far as he knew, Tim never had an audience when he wrote, no one to say what was "normal" for him. Tim was still typing and Gibbs continued to read.

_…"What do you want from me now, Tibbs?"_

_"I want to you to come out of this dream and think of someone other than yourself!" Tibbs shouted, making himself heard even over the roar of the water rushing down._

_"I am. I don't think I have anything more to give. What can I do now? I've ruined everything. I'm a poison, Tibbs, a disease. People who come near me die," McGregor said bitterly, still laying on his back on the bridge.__ "Everything I touch turns to ashes."_

"McGee."

Softly, Tim responded, "Don't worry, Boss. I'm still here."

Gibbs stared at Tim a long time as he began typing again, this time without speaking. It was an unexpected response to his unspoken query. Tim typed quietly for a few more minutes and then he stopped. The sudden cessation of the clicking keys made the room sound almost oppressively silent.

"I can't go any further," he said.

"Why not?"

"I don't know how to get him away," Tim said, shaking his head slightly. He looked away from the typewriter for the first time in hours. He met Gibbs' eyes, silently asking for help…but not with his novel. "I…I don't know how to get myself away either, Boss. Even if we leave it behind, it will still stay with us."

"That's true. Things like this tend to." As he said the words, something suddenly clicked for Gibbs. "McGee…do you really think that you _have_ to be able to forget it all?"

"I don't want to remember it…any of it," Tim said.

"That's impossible, McGee. You _can't_ forget it all. Probably not even most of it," Gibbs said.

"Then, how do I _stop_ it?" Tim asked, standing up so suddenly that his chair nearly toppled. "Please, Boss, tell me how. I shouldn't be losing my mind every time I remember." The too-ready tears sprang to his eyes again and he furiously blinked them away. He looked down at his hands. "I can't have this happen whenever I remember. I can't fall apart because of a memory I can't let go!"

"Then, don't," Gibbs said.

"It's not that easy, Boss," Tim said, in frustration. He began to walk by Gibbs.

"I didn't say it would be easy, McGee."

Tim stopped, mid-stride.

"…but you have to believe it's possible."

Gibbs heard Tim sigh deeply, but again, as before, he didn't turn around. "Thanks for being here, Boss. You don't have to stay. I'm just going to go to bed."

"Yes, I do, McGee."

That made Tim turn around, looking wary. "Why?"

Gibbs finally stood up and faced him. "Because…you asked me for help."

"But you did help me."

"Are you saying you don't need any more help, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

Tim looked back at him, a lie obviously on his lips, but it wouldn't come out.

Gibbs just smiled. "That's why I'm staying." He grabbed his bag from its place by the door. Tim looked at it in surprise. He hadn't even noticed it before. "So go to bed, McGee. I'll still be here."

The expression on Tim's face revealed his ambivalence. Gibbs pretended not to notice and turned around to give Tim a chance to get away…a chance which he took. Gibbs smiled to himself, but at the same time, he really wondered if he'd done any good today beyond getting Tim past his writer's block. He pulled a blanket and a foam pad out of his bag. _Always be prepared_, he thought wryly as he spread them on the floor.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

The choking noises woke Gibbs up before he even realized what he was hearing. It was the panicked wheezing of someone who couldn't breathe…and there was only one other person in this apartment. He jumped up from his temporary bed and went into Tim's room. Tim was laying on his bed, the blankets scattered every which way. He wasn't moving, but his eyes were wide open, his head tilted backward. He was stuck in the nightmare which was telling him that he couldn't breathe, even though there was nothing keeping him from it.

"Wake up, McGee!" Gibbs said and began shaking Tim.

It wasn't working. This wasn't just a nightmare.

"McGee, come on!" More than even the night before when he had discovered Tim in his bathtub, this moment made Gibbs actually feel a thrill of fear. The only way to get Tim out of this was to break through the memory that made him believe he was drowning. He couldn't try and get someone else to help. No one was close enough. Strangely, as he tried to wake Tim up, something Tim had typed that day flashed through his mind: _"McGregor! Don't make me watch you die!" Of all the things that Tibbs didn't think he could bear, it was watching another person die in front of him._ Whether Tim had meant it as referring to Gibbs or not, it was true…and especially not like this.

"McGee, you're not drowning!" Gibbs said and then, the words slipped out before he could hold them back. "Don't make me watch you die!" He really hoped that Tim wouldn't remember that he'd said that.

Tim's hand suddenly snaked out and grabbed his arm. "I…can't…breathe…"

"Yes, you can, McGee. You're not drowning. You're fine. You're safe on your bed."

"Can't…breathe…" Tim's gasps continued. His grip on Gibbs arm tightened.

"Don't do this, Tim. Come on. You're not paralyzed; you're not trapped; you're not in the water. You're just dreaming! Wake up!" Gibbs forced _himself _to calm down. "McGee, tell me where you are."

Tim's hand spasmed and then tightened around Gibbs' arm again.

"_Where are you_?" Gibbs asked again.

"Home…"

"Yes, that's it, McGee. Where?"

Tim breathed, a full breath. It was loud, but it was a real breath. "In…my bed."

"Yes."

Tim went limp on his bed although he did not release Gibbs. He blinked as he made eye contact with Gibbs. He looked at his own hand, gripping Gibbs' arm so tightly that his knuckles were white. He couldn't seem to let go.

"You were dying, McGee."

"Yes," Tim whispered, still looking at his hand.

"What were you dreaming?"

"Still water."

"What do you mean?"

"The water's so deep I can't get to the surface. It's just still and unmoving…because _I_ can't move." Tim was taking deep breaths, nearly hyperventilating in his desperation to replenish his air supply.

"Slow down, McGee. Otherwise, you'll pass out."

Tim made an obvious effort, but he wouldn't tear his eyes from his hand. Gibbs could feel his arm going numb below Tim's fingers.

"McGee?"

"Yes, Boss?"

"I would like to not lose all feeling in my arm."

Tim didn't even smile as he loosened his grip. "Why won't they go away?" he asked.

"McGee?"

Tim didn't reply this time. He just breathed.

"McGee!" Gibbs slapped his head…gently.

To his surprise, Tim smiled sadly. "Do you know that's the first time you've done that since I confessed to withholding evidence?"

Gibbs let out a disbelieving chuckle. "What?"

"You haven't…not once…until now."

For some reason that Gibbs could not fathom, this was very important.

"When I told you what I had done, I expected…I _wanted_ someone to yell, to be angry. I thought for sure you would slap me upside the head for my idiocy…but I had gone too far for that. Instead…you all just stared and then…dismissed me as if I wasn't worth being noticed. I wanted to force you to do something, to _say_ something. I wanted you to tell me what an idiot I was, how irresponsible I'd been. I wanted to be punished…if only so that I could tell myself that I had paid the price. I had nothing…and then…"

"…then, Smith came and punished you," Gibbs realized. "McGee, that wasn't a just punishment for what you did. Your punishment came from the director. _That_ was the price you paid…and the _only_ price you should have paid. What Smith did was not a punishment. It was an attack, nothing more, nothing less."

"I wish I could believe you," Tim said hopelessly. Not once had he looked up at Gibbs. Out of what? Shame? Fear? Whatever it was, Tim was bowed down with the weight of it.

Gibbs tried not to sigh. _One step forward…two steps back._


	30. Chapter 30

**Chapter 30**

It was Tim who broke the silence.

"I won't be sleeping anymore tonight, Boss. You can go if you want to." He was still looking anywhere but at Gibbs. He didn't want to face what had been said, what had happened.

Gibbs, rather than answering, walked over to the chair by the window and sat down. "Tell me something, McGee."

"What do you want to know?" Tim asked, sounding listless.

Gibbs stared at him sympathetically. "I don't care."

Finally…_finally_, Tim looked up. "What do you mean?"

Even in the darkness of the bedroom, Gibbs could tell Tim was confused. "How much of your time have you spent thinking about what happened? How long have you been afraid of going to sleep because you know that you'll just remember how it felt to die? How long has it been since you _didn't_ feel guilty about your actions?"

Tim looked at Gibbs, grateful for the darkness and yet wishing at the same time that he could pierce the shadows and read Gibbs' expression…and understand why Gibbs was asking.

"I don't know, Boss. Why?"

"Because this can't be all there is, Tim," Gibbs said with uncommon kindness. "There is so much more to your life than these last two months…even than these last two years. So, tell me something."

Tim was caught off guard by Gibbs' summation, even though it was true. Two months _was_ a small fraction of his life…and yet it seemed to have taken over _everything_ that he did. There was also the added difficulty of this being _Gibbs_ asking him to talk. He just didn't share personal information with Gibbs on a regular basis.

"I don't know what to say," he admitted.

Gibbs chuckled. "Okay…Why NCIS?"

"What do you mean?"

"You could have done anything, McGee. You're a smart person. Why did you pick NCIS? Why did you want to work as a field agent? Why not Intel or in the Computer Investigations division?"

Tim was silent for a long time, wondering how in the world he should answer the question. "Job security?" he said quietly.

Gibbs smiled, although Tim couldn't see his expression. "Really, McGee. Why?"

"It just…seemed right, I guess."

"What did?"

"Everything. …I…" Tim hesitated, wary of revealing so much of himself. Still, Gibbs was here. He had come and he had stayed and never made the slightest hint that he regretted it. Tim knew that his call to Gibbs had been as much a fluke as anything. It was sheer luck that he had been able to get to his phone at all in that desperate moment. That he had been in a state to be able to think of anything beyond his own terror was a miracle. He still remembered the one coherent thought that had run through his head: _Gibbs told me to call him._ Had he been any more…_sane_, he wouldn't have done it. He wouldn't have had the courage, but he had been so desperate for someone to help him that he didn't have the time or the ability to really think about anything beyond that need. Gibbs had saved him twice in less than two days. He had been there. Surely, Tim could trust him with a part of himself.

"I've always wanted to be…" Tim blushed, glad once more of the darkness. "…a detective, like in the books. You know, Sherlock Holmes and that type. I still remember the first time I read _The Moonstone_. Even if it wasn't the detective who solved the mystery, there was an investigation. There was mystery and evidence to follow, ideas to play out, misunderstandings and discoveries, just like in all the detective novels that get published. I would read them when I was young and…it was what I wanted. The whole wanting to be an astronaut that so many of my friends had…it kind of passed me by. I told my dad once that it was his fault for making me read so many crime novels. The detectives in them, whether they were policemen or anything else, they…helped people. They solved mysteries, saved people's lives. In their own ways, they made the world better. That's what I always wanted to be able to do."

"Why?"

Tim was silent again. These whys were not so fearsome as the whys he'd been confronting for the last couple of months. It was just that he'd never been asked to put them into words, and it was hard to actually make his own thoughts intelligible to anyone but him. He stared at the ceiling and tried to think of what to say. "I… was bullied in school…nothing major. The jerks in my grade every so often decided to notice me enough to torment me, mainly because I was a couple of years younger than they. I always thought that it was _wrong_…not just because it was happening to me…but because _fundamentally_ what they were doing was _wrong_. There were a few times that I came home from school…almost crying as much from frustration as from any actual hurt. When that would happen, my dad would give me another detective story to read. Mom always wanted to charge to the school and ream both the kids who had bullied me and the teachers who had let it happen, but my dad wasn't like that. He would make me read the story and then we'd critique it. I think that he wanted me to go into literature, like him. Sarah did that…so his kids weren't a total loss," Tim said, smiling a little.

His smile, although invisible to Gibbs came out in his voice…and it was about the first time Gibbs had heard that since Robert Smith had begun his spree.

"Somehow, it just became a natural thing. I wanted to be like those detectives: solve the mysteries, get rid of the injustice I saw so often."

"So, if that's what you wanted, why MIT? Why all the computer stuff? Why not just become a policeman?"

"Like Tony?" Tim asked. "I'm nothing like him. That would never have worked." It wasn't said insultingly, just honestly.

"Then, why did you choose the course you did, McGee?"

"I'm good at it, Boss," Tim said simply. There was no arrogance attached to his statement. When he had first joined NCIS, he'd mentioned MIT all the time, almost as a justification for his presence, but now…it was just a statement of fact, nothing more. "It's like…knowing another language…not just vocabulary and grammar, but _really_ knowing it, being able to _think_ in that language. I _understand_ computers and how they work…I don't know how to describe it…to you." Tim laughed hesitantly. He had no idea how interested Gibbs actually was in what he was saying and the last thing he wanted to do was insult his boss.

"So why not do that? Why not do what you excel at?"

"That's the thing, Boss. Here, I _can_ do both. I can be…a detective and I can work with computers and…I can do some good…with both of them. That's the most important thing, making the world better. It sounds silly when I say it out loud, but it's true. Most people want to make the world better, not worse." He shrugged, a single jerk of his silhouette. "I'm no different."

Gibbs smiled, sadly this time. Yes, that made sense. Why had he never asked these questions before? Why was it that it took something as serious as this to bring out the more personal interactions? Tim had been at NCIS for years. The facts of his life were all in his file, which Gibbs had read many times before transferring him to his team…but the impetus that drove him… who had known about that? Who had known that Tim was such an idealist…_still_? The people who cared enough to ask. Tim wouldn't volunteer such information. He had always been free about his qualifications, mostly out of a need to prove to those who had not followed his own seemingly circuitous path to NCIS that he really did deserve to be there. But he rarely tried to tell any of them _why_ he was there. _I certainly never tried to find out before now,_ he thought to himself. _Why not?_

"Boss?" Tim asked, sounding nervous.

Gibbs started and realized that he'd been silent for too long. "You _are_ different, McGee. No one follows the exact same motivations as anyone else. It doesn't make you better…or worse than anyone else…and it's not silly, not if _you_ believe it."

"I…I thought I did," Tim said, the desolation settling too easily on him again.

Gibbs tried to stop it before it could go anywhere. "Dang it, McGee, you don't have to be perfect! Stop thinking that you do!"

"I don't, Boss…but…"

"No! You're either lying or you're kidding yourself because you _do _think that. You keep trying to pretend that you don't, but that's a lie. And the biggest problem is that if you keep thinking that you _have _to be perfect, you're only going to set yourself up for more failures because _no one _is perfect…not even you."

"Abby said the same thing," Tim whispered, almost inaudibly.

"McGee, you messed up. No one is denying that. We all saw it. We all know. The problem is that _you_ think that this one mistake means that you can't make the world better anymore. Do you think that this one case destroys everything else you've done up to this point and everything that you will do later?"

Tim was silent again. Gibbs could see his silhouette shifting uncomfortably. Maybe this would be easier with light, but the darkness gave Tim a feeling of anonymity which probably allowed him to feel more free to be honest.

"That wasn't a rhetorical question, McGee," Gibbs said.

"I just wish I understood why," Tim said finally. "Ziva said that I was afraid…but that's not it, not really. There was something like fear involved…but that doesn't explain it."

"Then, if you weren't afraid, what _did_ you feel?"

Tim whispered a single word…so softly that Gibbs couldn't hear. And while he couldn't actually see him, Gibbs would bet that he was shaking again.

"What?" he asked, quietly.

Tim said the word again, slightly louder, but still not loud enough for Gibbs to understand him. Slowly, the shadow that was Tim pulled its legs up and put its arms around them.

"McGee, you need to actually say it."

"Trapped," Tim said, the word finally audible…but still so soft that Gibbs had to strain to hear it.

"Explain, even if you think you can't."

Tim's form began rocking. His voice was so soft. "I _was_ afraid. I _did_ panic…but what I really felt was trapped. I couldn't get away from…what I was thinking in my own head, from what everyone else was thinking about me, from what Robert had been saying. Then, I couldn't get away from him at all. I was trapped by him and by my own body."

"And now?"

"Now…I still feel trapped…only it's by the memories that just won't leave me alone. I can't get away from them and I can't get away from the feeling that I should have done things so differently," Tim said and then, his voice took on a note of anger. "…and I'm trapped by the fact that I can't understand what happened."

Gibbs leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. "Have you ever seen what happens when an animal is cornered? When it has no way of escaping?"

"I don't think so, although I can guess."

"When an animal thinks that it's trapped, it will do anything to get away, particularly if it feels that it is in imminent danger. There have been times when animals will tear off their own limbs just to get free of a trap."

"What limbs am _I_ tearing off, Boss?" Tim asked, a hint of self-deprecating humor in his voice.

"I don't know, McGee. It depends on how caught you feel. You've been doing everything you could to get out of your trap…and it is _not_ your fault that you haven't yet succeeded."

"Then whose fault is it? This is all happening in _my_ head, Boss. It's not anyone else's fault that I can't handle it."

"Yes, that's true, but if you're not given the right tools to get yourself out, then it's no wonder that you're reduced to tearing off your limbs…so to speak."

"So to speak…" Tim echoed hollowly. "Let's all be grateful that I haven't yet devolved to the point of self-amputation."

Tim was trying too hard to make a joke, to make it all less…serious. Gibbs could tell that he felt there was no other option …_and with me here, he kn__o__w__s__ that he won't succeed at dying_. Avoidance was the next best thing.

Again the silence descended. Tim rocked on the bed and Gibbs sat, trying to figure out his next course of action. The minutes ticked by and Gibbs felt as though he, not Tim, were failing. Tim may not be dead…thank heavens, but he certainly didn't seem any better. His thoughts seemed to be as firmly entrenched as they had been at the beginning. As the period of silence lengthened, Gibbs found himself actually feeling tired. Tim was making no attempt to speak, or even to move. He was just sitting and rocking…back and forth, back and forth…Gibbs' eyelids drooped as the two days of little sleep demanded payment.

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Tim continued to rock, trying not to think, trying to pretend that he couldn't still hear the water in his head. He both longed for Gibbs to break the silence and feared that he would ask more questions Tim couldn't answer. _Gibbs is right. I _am_ a trapped animal. I'm tired of waiting for someone to free me from the trap._

"Boss?" he whispered softly. A long exhale told him that, amazingly, Gibbs had fallen asleep. Tim himself felt so awake that he was quivering with awareness. Slowly, he let his legs fall to the floor once more. He walked to his dresser, easy to do, even in the dark, and pulled out some clothes. There was no point in staying in his bed. He was not going to wait for the next time he nearly drowned in his own bed. He remembered the feeling and it almost reduced him to tears. He would _not_ let that happen again. He crept quietly by Gibbs. The fact that he didn't wake was a sign of his exhaustion. Tim felt a pang of guilt. _He's tired because of me and my stupid brain._ He wished that he could move Gibbs into a more comfortable position, but that would wake him up. He didn't need to be conscious. Tim knew what needed to be done now.

As he walked into the main room, he passed his writing desk, the stack of pages from his chapter…he'd never finished it. He still didn't know how to get McGregor away from the falls. He was still there…and suddenly, Tim knew why: It was because he _couldn't_ leave them. He looked back at the door to his bedroom. He tiptoed over to it and gently pulled it closed. He walked to the typewriter and put in a fresh sheet. It took only a couple of minutes to type up the end…of everything. Tim stood and looked around his apartment. He was surprised to feel so little reluctance. All he wanted to do was leave, leave himself behind and be free of everything that hemmed him in. He would finally be free of his chains, of the trap. It would take a very permanent step and there would be some regret, but…_I just want it to end! It's worth the price._

Tim picked up his keys and walked out.

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Gibbs opened his eyes with a start. Something was very wrong. He looked around. The darkness seemed just a little less complete than it had before.

_I fell asleep!_ he thought with amazement…and then he twigged to the fact that Tim was _not_ asleep. He wasn't even in the room. Gibbs stood up, now worried. Quickly, he walked into the bathroom, but a moment's glance told him that Tim had not returned there. He left the bathroom, strode through the bedroom to the main room…again, he felt the yawning emptiness that gave him a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He walked all around the apartment, although he knew that if Tim wasn't obviously visible, he wasn't there.

Then…by chance, he glanced at the typewriter and saw a page with a few short paragraphs on it. It was a new sheet of paper. With mounting fear, Gibbs reached out and picked it up.

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The closer Tim got to his destination, the better he felt. He was almost excited. The roads were clear. He'd make it with no problem. His car's tank was full. There was no worry that he might run out. He'd left at four in the morning. No one was on the roads. He hadn't been there in so long…and never in wintertime. It was supposed to be beautiful.

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_"McGregor, we still need you here," Tibbs insisted. "You've done nothing that can't be undone."_

_"You're wrong, Tibbs," McGregor said, finally standing. "I've done the only thing that you really can't undo. I've taken a life…maybe four lives."_

_"That's not true."_

_"It is true…" McGregor looked toward the falls again, so enticingly near. "…sometimes…falling really is the only way." Suddenly, before Tibbs could even react, McGregor ran toward the falls again. In a moment that would forever be seared in Tibbs' brain, he leapt over the railing, hung briefly in the air and plummeted down into the welcoming embrace of the water._

_"No!" Tibbs screamed, the single word torn from his throat in a moment of breathless denial._

_McGregor fell slowly, watching the waters approach, hearing the roaring of its welcome, but he didn't need to hear it. He had heard it all his life…only now was he returning to where he belonged. Only now was he ending the journey that had begun so many years ago. Just before he hit the bottom, he smiled._

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Tim reached the entrance to Shenandoah Park just after five a.m. The Dark Hollow Falls were pretty far into the park, but Tim kept driving. The water in his head had been getting louder and louder as he'd gotten closer to the park. Soon…soon it would be gone forever.

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Gibbs dropped the page in complete shock. He shook it off in seconds, but in that moment, he saw with crystal clarity all that he had thought he could ignore. He hadn't left Tim alone, no, but he hadn't really been _with_ him. He hadn't really understood the depth of what he was going through…not through any fault of Tim's. He had tried his best to explain, but it was just too hard to put his torment into words. He started toward the door, intent on getting to Tim before he emulated McGregor…and then he stopped. He realized that he had no idea where these "falls" were…if they even existed…which they must in some form. Who would know?

Gibbs pulled out his phone and dialed quickly. It rang and rang and went to voice mail. He hung up and dialed again.

"Someone had better be dying," Abby said groggily into the phone.

Gibbs actually winced at her words, but his voice didn't reveal any of that. "Abby, did McGee have a place in mind for the locations in his book?"

"Gibbs?"

"Yes. Answer the question."

"Why are you asking _me_?" she asked sleepily. "Call Tim."

"I can't. Answer me, Abbs!"

Abby suddenly sounded a lot more awake. "Why?"

"Abby, we don't have time for twenty questions. I need you to answer one!"

"Yes, Gibbs. He does," Abby said, now sounding very worried.

"Do you know where they are?"

"Some." Worry was swiftly moving to fear.

"Tell me."

"Well…you saw the place he called Rock Hollow before. Um…he has the locations of all the murders. He goes to different locations."

"What about the falls?"

"The falls?"

"Yeah. Has he told you about them?"

"Oh…wait. He did mention that to me once," Abby sounded like she was walking around now, her voice was full of fear now. "Uh…where was it?"

"Think, Abby!" Gibbs ordered as he hurried out of the apartment. He saw that Tim's car was gone and felt another sinking feeling.

"I'm trying, Gibbs!" Abby shouted, sounding tearful. "Wait! It was in Shenandoah National Park…um…oh, of course. Dark Hollow Falls! He picked it because it was so close the title of his book and he said they were beautiful. Why, Gibbs?"

"I think he's gone there."

"Why…"

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Tim could see the parking lot in the distance. He could feel the falls. It didn't matter that he wasn't close enough to hear them. He didn't need to hear them.

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"I think he's going to kill himself," Gibbs said finally, seeing no reason to pretend otherwise.

"Oh, no…" Abby said in a small voice. "Gibbs, you have to come and get me!"

"Abby, that's not on the way."

"Please, Gibbs. You can't tell me that Tim is going to kill himself and then expect me to just sit here! Please…"

"Okay…okay." Gibbs pulled out of Tim's parking lot and headed toward Abby's apartment.

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Tim got out of the car and shivered a little in the cold air. A light dusting of snow began to fall as he headed toward the trail that led to the falls. As he walked, he remembered the poem from the suicide victim they had investigated… the well-known words fell from his lips in the empty air around him, echoing briefly against the stands of trees. "And, doubly dying, shall go down To the vile dust from whence he sprung, Unwept, unhonored and unsung."

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"What's going on, Gibbs?" Abby asked as she jumped in the car and put on her seatbelt. Gibbs peeled out of the parking lot and began to drive…much too fast.

"I'm not entirely sure, but I think McGee's given up."

"Given up? What do you mean? He sounded fine when I talked to him on Friday!"

"He wasn't. I've been with him since about three a.m. on Saturday morning and I've had to keep him from breaking down twice."

"What? Why? What's going_ on_?" Abby nearly shrieked.

"McGee is _not_ okay…and we have to stop him before he…" Even Gibbs couldn't finish the sentence. "Call Ducky and tell him."

"Okay…" Abby said, tearing pouring down her cheeks.

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Tim stood at the base of the falls for a long time, enjoying the view. The brief warm snap had brought quite a bit of water to this area and the falls were pouring like they would in the spring thaw. Then, he looked over at the slippery rocks that led to the place that had been calling to him for days.

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Abby hung up the phone and whimpered, "Drive faster, Gibbs."

"What did Ducky say?"

"That if we didn't hurry, we'd be too late. …he also said that he's coming."

"Coming where?"

"To Shenandoah. He's going to meet us there."

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Tim slipped once and almost fell. After that he was much more careful. Things had to happen in a certain way. He shivered and thought that maybe he should have brought his coat…but what did he care about that? Really. There would be no point to that. He finally reached the top and looked at the water. He couldn't actually see the falls…but he'd get a look soon enough. He shivered again. It was cold.

As he walked slowly toward the edge, he suddenly began shaking for another reason: he was afraid.

"No. This is it. Falling is the only way out," he said to himself…but he couldn't make himself move any further. He stepped into the stream, ignoring the frigid water on his legs and willed himself to move. "I'm tired of dying. I just want to be dead." He took a step and slipped, falling into the icy water. He hit his head on a rock and slipped limply toward the edge…


	31. Chapter 31

**Chapter 31**

_Suspense -- is Hostiler than Death --_  


_Death -- tho'soever Broad,_  


_Is Just Death, and cannot increase --_  


_Suspense -- does not conclude --_  


_But perishes -- to live anew --_  


_But just anew to die --_  


_Annihilation -- plated fresh_  


_With Immortality –_  


Emily Dickinson

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Tim's body slid toward the edge…and stopped. The runoff had brought a lot of debris down from upstream and Tim was blocked from his goal by a large mass of branches which trapped his legs. His torso rolled forward a little more and then also stopped as it became wedged against a rock. Tim was not going to die from the falls…unless he moved himself toward them.

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Gibbs and Abby didn't try to make any conversation as they drove. Both their minds were only on the possible horrific scene they were fast approaching. Once they reached the park, Gibbs took the posted speed limit of 35 mph as a mere suggestion and disregarded it. Abby said nothing at first, but then, she began to count the mile markers as they passed each one.

"…21…22…23…" Abby counted quietly. "…24…25…we're halfway there…"

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Tim brought his hand weakly to his head. He felt dazed and helpless. He shivered violently in the cold and winced as he touched the place where his head had struck the rocks. He brought his hand back and saw that there was blood on it…and then sighed tiredly and couldn't muster the energy to do anything. The cold water rippled over him and he hated it…but he couldn't stop it. A tear slipped from his eye, one single drop of salt water that quickly blended with the snow melt all around him. _Always helpless, always paralyzed_. _Maybe it's my fate to be __that way…even in death._

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"There it is! There it is, Gibbs! Right there! Turn!" Abby said, pointing frantically at the parking lot containing a single car…a Porsche. Abby jumped out of the car almost before Gibbs had stopped it.

She began to run toward the trail and Gibbs was surprised to note that she was wearing hiking boots. He didn't know she even _owned_ such normal footwear. He ran after her and together they sprinted up the trail to the falls.

"Tim! Tim!" she shouted frantically, looking everywhere, as if Tim would suddenly appear and tell them it was all a joke. It wasn't a joke. She knew it. When they reached the falls themselves she suddenly stopped running and covered her eyes.

"Abby, what are you doing?" Gibbs said, a little breathlessly. The trail wasn't especially long, but the falling snow had made it a little slippery and they had been sprinting.

"Is he there, Gibbs? Look and tell me. I can't."

Gibbs smiled and moved toward the base of the falls. He looked downstream and saw nothing. Then, he looked up toward the top of the falls. At first, he couldn't see anything…

"McGee!" he shouted.

Abby shrieked wordlessly and uncovered her eyes.

"Up there!" Gibbs pointed upward…seventy feet to the very top of the falls where a lifeless form lay across the river, creating a kind of temporary dam. He didn't know whether to be relieved or terrified that Tim was up there and not dead at the bottom. Immediately, he and Abby began the slippery, dangerous climb up the rocks to the top of the falls, their ragged breaths the only sound beyond the falling water.

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Tim thought he could hear someone calling his name…which was ridiculous. No one knew where he was. Maybe it was the water that kept running over his ears. It was playing tricks on him. One last bid at torturing him before the end. At least he didn't feel cold anymore. _It's the first time I've been warm in ages_, he thought to himself. The water didn't frighten him anymore either. He felt it as it occasionally trickled over his face, but it didn't matter. None of it mattered. It still galled him that he couldn't even commit suicide on his own terms…but the end result would be the same, just a little more slowly than he had wanted. This wasn't so bad really. He was shaking, but he wasn't trying to stop it. He just let his body get on with shutting down. He wasn't calling the shots this time. He wasn't even trying to. He had no power to stop what was coming…the only difference was that this time he was happy with what the end result would be.

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Abby slipped in her haste and Gibbs grabbed her arm to keep her from tumbling down the hillside. She shook off his supporting hand and continued upward. They were almost there. Almost…

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Tim suddenly felt his body moving again…just slightly. His violent shivering was slowly loosening the branches that had entangled his legs. It was enough to break through the fog in his head and make him force his eyes open. He looked up at the trees, dead and barren, the empty branches stretching up toward the sky in silent supplication. _Maybe they can pray for me as well_, he thought vaguely. His body shifted a few more inches downstream. The excitement was basically gone now. All that remained was a feeling of resignation, a dangerous resignation to the fate that he saw waiting for him.

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"Gibbs, he's slipping!" Abby shouted and redoubled her pace.

Gibbs did as well and shot past her. He didn't spare the breath to answer her, but in his mind he was thinking, _Oh, no you don't, McGee. You're not going to do this to us._ The branches shifted more and began to loosen. Tim's body, shaking as it was, began to slip toward the edge. Gibbs ignored Abby's screams and focused only on the goal just ahead of him: Tim, dressed only in a t-shirt and jeans, his bare arms chafed and red, his head matted with blood. This would _not_ turn into a fulfillment of Tim's writing. Tibbs might have been taken by surprise, but Gibbs would not be.

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Tim closed his eyes as his body began to roll. He thought he heard someone screaming his name again, but he couldn't be bothered to see if it was really true. He could feel the approaching oblivion and lifted a cold shaking hand toward it, beckoning it closer, begging it to take him…

…something warm…almost hot to the touch took his arm instead. Somewhere in his sluggish mind, Tim recognized the hand as it gripped his wrist and knew it for what it was…someone was stopping him. More tears, although not very many, fell from his eyes as he realized that once again his life was at the mercy of someone else…he had no choice, no power. He was paralyzed again.

"No…" he whispered pitifully.

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Tim's hand lifted into the air, reaching not for Gibbs, but for something unseen…Abby knew what it was and tried to ignore it…but it was still there. Tim was reaching out for death. She reached the top just as Gibbs grabbed Tim's arm, stopping his horrible motion toward the edge of the falls. She approached the edge of the river, ready to help.

"Abby, give me your scarf and run back to the car and start it up again. Turn on the heat and get the extra blankets and first aid kit out of the trunk. Call for an ambulance if there's any reception," Gibbs said.

"Are you sure?" she asked as she pulled off the scarf. She didn't want to leave.

"Go!" Gibbs ordered. She knew he was right. He had this under control. Tim wasn't going to fall, not with Gibbs there.

How she made it back to the car, Abby never knew. It seemed like one moment she was slipping and sliding down the hillside back to the path and the next she was sitting in the car, turning up the heat to full blast.

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Gibbs pulled Tim to the bank. He had heard Tim's plea but he chose not to acknowledge it, not right now. Right now, it was more important to keep Tim alive. He tied the scarf, not around Tim's neck, but around his head to stop the blood flow, which was definitely sluggish at the moment, but would no doubt speed up as Tim's body temperature increased…if it did… _No, I am not going to think that way._

Gibbs pulled off Tim's shirt and then shucked off his own coat and wrapped it around Tim's shivering frame. Except for the shivering he was as limp and lifeless as when Tony had pulled him out of the bathtub…another bad comparison. Gibbs pushed the thought aside as he began to negotiate his way down to the path.

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"Abigail!" Ducky's voice pulled Abby from her frightened thoughts. She had been looking toward the trail, waiting for Gibbs to show up, nursing an irrational hope that Tim would be walking beside him.

"Ducky…" she whimpered and threw herself into his arms.

"Where are Jethro and Timothy?"

"That way. Tim…he was…at the top of the falls. He must have slipped. He almost fell," Abby wept. "How could this have _happened_, Ducky? How? How could he seem so normal and then…do something like _this_?"

"I don't know, Abigail. That is something we will have to let Timothy explain."

"Don't let him die, Ducky. Please…don't let him die."

"Where are they, Abby?"

Abby was surprised enough that she pulled away from Ducky and looked in amazement at Tony and Ziva as they approached. She looked back at Ducky who smiled and hugged her again.

"I needed a ride," he said.

"They're at the end of the trail," Abby said finally. She could now, of course, follow them, but as much as she wanted to know if Tim was okay, she couldn't bring herself to follow Tony and Ziva as they ran out of the parking lot and into the forest. Instead, she burrowed her head into Ducky's shoulder and prayed that Tim would live.

------------------------------------------------------

"McGee, wake up! Come on! Don't do this!" Gibbs said. He had managed to get Tim to the trail, but as he had begun the trek back to the parking lot, Tim's eyes, which had been at least a little open, had closed completely and the shivers were ebbing. Since there was no way that Tim could be nearing normal body temperature, that meant that he was falling unconscious…and that might turn into a permanent state if Gibbs allowed it…which he wouldn't. He hesitated and then smacked Tim on the head, being sure to miss the blood-soaked scarf as he did so.

Tim's shivering increased as he rose to a level of consciousness. "Let…me…go…" he whispered through chattering teeth.

"No, McGee. I won't do that. I refuse to do that," Gibbs said and began to pick Tim up again. He wasn't fighting Gibbs. He had no strength for that…for anything.

"Boss!" Tony shouted from up the trail. He was followed closely by Ziva.

Tony came to a sudden halt as he reached Gibbs and Tim. Ziva nearly crashed into him from behind, but she didn't berate Tony at all. She just stared at Tim. He seemed almost as white as the snow around him and he was shaking so violently.

"What happened, Gibbs?"

"McGee tried to kill himself," Gibbs said shortly and then nodded toward Tim's legs. Tony picked them up and the trio set off down the trail, walking as quickly as they dared. About halfway back to the parking lot, Tim started talking. Most of it was incomprehensible gibberish, but once, his words became real words.

"_A death blow is a life blow to some…"_

Tony looked back over his shoulder. Tim's eyes were open, but they looked crazed as he stared up at the sky. The shaking that wracked his body had not lessened and his words were continually interrupted by his shudders. He didn't like the words and turned back to the trail.

"_Who,…till they died, did not alive become…_"

"What is that he is saying?" Ziva asked.

"Sounds like poetry to me," Tony said. "He writes poetry, too."

Tim continued to speak, his words slurred and broken. "_Who…had they…lived, had died,…but…when…"_

Suddenly, Gibbs said, "Shut up, McGee."

Tim could not or would not stop. "_They…died…vitality…begun…"_ But then, his words returned to the incomprehensible syllables he'd been using before.

They reached the parking lot and put Tim into Gibbs' car which was currently hotter than the Sahara in summertime. Still, he shivered, even when Abby got into the car with him and hugged him tightly. Ducky probed the wound on his head and checked him over as much as he could. His face was grave when he turned and faced everyone else.

"I called for an ambulance while we drove," Ducky said. "They should be here soon."

"Where will they take him?"

"Page Memorial Hospital. It's the closest one…in Luray. He's far gone now and needs medical attention beyond anything we can do out here."

--------------------------------------------------------

"Tim, don't die. Please, don't die," Abby whispered as she lay on the seat, holding Tim close.

Tim just shivered and mumbled. She wasn't sure if he even heard her.

"This is wrong. Why didn't you tell me you felt this way? We're friends! I would have been there for you, Tim!" More tears fell from her eyes as she spoke.

--------------------------------------------------------

The ambulance, when it arrived, was met with many sighs of relief. Ducky met one of the paramedics as they got out and had a quick, quiet conversation with him. They went to Gibbs' car and pulled Tim quickly out and transferred him to the ambulance.

Abby jumped out of the car, breathing the colder air gratefully. "Please, can I go with him?" she asked.

The paramedic looked at Ducky again and then focused on Abby. "Can you stay out of the way?" he asked.

"Yes…" Abby began. "Yes. It'll be hard, but I will. I just need to…"

"Go on," he said, pointing to the back of the ambulance where Tim was already inside and strapped in.

Abby bit her lip and then ran to the open doors and jumped in.

"Page Memorial?" Ducky asked.

"Yes. 200 Memorial Drive in Luray."

They watched, then, as the ambulance, sirens blaring, sped out of the parking lot.

"Boss?" Tony asked into the sudden silence.

"What, Tony?"

"What happened?"

"I think we'd all like to know that," he answered. He went and grabbed a piece of paper from the floor of his car and held it out. "I found this. …It's his suicide note, I suppose."

Ducky took it and read the few paragraphs and then looked up in concern. "Was he like this on Saturday?"

"Not that he showed me. He had been insisting that he didn't want to die."

"Wait, you were with him?" Ziva asked.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because he had another flashback in his apartment," Gibbs said shortly.

Tony took the page from Ducky and read it. He handed it to Ziva without comment.

"He killed McGregor," she said in surprise.

"Let's just hope that he hasn't succeeded in killing himself," Gibbs said and then turned and walked to his car. Ducky followed him while Tony and Ziva returned to Tony's car.

------------------------------------------------------------

In the ambulance, Abby watched as the EMT strove to bring Tim's temperature back up.

"Please, don't die," she whispered again and she held his cold hand.


	32. Chapter 32

**Chapter 32**

"Should we recommend lavage?" Tristan asked from the front of the ambulance.

"Not yet. Internal temp is hovering right around 86. It's low but not falling. Let's see how the internal rewarming goes," Eric answered. He placed more heat packs around Tim's body and attached another line. Tim was already covered with blankets, heating packs and tubes. His face was covered with an oxygen mask which delivered warm humid air to his lungs in an effort to non-invasively rewarm his heart and lungs.

Abby gulped nervously as she watched. She had managed to stay relatively calm so far, but Tim was too still, too pale, too…empty, and knowing that he had _wanted_ this only made it worse.

"Ma'am?"

Abby tore her eyes away from Tim's face and looked at the EMT. She didn't speak.

"What's your name?"

"Abby," she whispered.

"Abby, can you talk to him? Let him know you're here? It might help."

Abby gave a watery smile. "I can try." She picked up Tim's limp hand again. It was so cold. "Tim? Can you hear me? Are you still in there?"

Eric gave her a sympathetic look and smiled encouragingly as he continued to monitor Tim's vitals and hoped for an increase, even a small one, in his core temperature. That would signal a turnaround in his condition. So far, it wasn't happening…but at least he wasn't getting colder.

"I don't understand it. I don't _get_ it. You need to tell me, Tim. You need to let me know _why_…why you think you have to die. Why you _want_ it enough to drive all the way out here just to…" Abby's voice broke and she pulled the cold limp hand up to her cheek. "Please, please, don't do this to us. We need you here, Tim. We _need_ you. How could I tell your parents, how could I tell Sarah that you died? Don't you see? _We_ need you to live. I want to be totally selfish and tell you that you _have_ to live."

"He's up…half a degree," Eric reported with relief. "The internal rewarming seems to be working for now. How long do we have?"

"We're about 15 minutes out, barring any road hazards. ER team is ready for our arrival."

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim heard Abby speaking although at first her words were nothing more than a wash of sound, indecipherable and mostly unimportant. He wondered, for a while, where she had come from, but shortly dismissed that line of thought as too taxing. All he wanted was to recapture that darkness…but his body disagreed with his desires and he felt himself becoming more and more aware with every passing minute. A lower voice occasionally intruded on Abby's fear-laden monologue.

_Trapped again,_ he thought, only this time, insteading being broken by that knowledge, Tim found that he was angry…very angry. Smith, he could understand not caring about what Tim wanted. Even his own body was merely a tool. Most of the time, it answered to his commands, but sometimes it couldn't, like now when he was desperately commanding it to cease all functions. …but Abby, Gibbs, they were supposed to be his _friends_! Colleagues at the very least…and they shouldn't be tormenting him so much, trapping him with life and telling him he had to live. _Why won't they let me go? Why are they ignoring what _I_ want?__ Why, why, why are they making me live?__I want__ to die!_

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim's eyes fluttered open briefly as the ambulance neared the hospital.

"Tim!" Abby said, hardly daring to hope. She gripped his hand more tightly and leaned forward.

Tim eyes didn't focus on her…but they did turn in her direction. The hand she was holding moved just a little and Abby loosened her grip. Tim spoke, but she couldn't understand him through the oxygen mask.

"What? I didn't hear you."

Tim took a deep breath and whispered just loudly enough to be heard, "I don't…_want_…life."

Abby started to cry again. "No, Tim. Don't say that. Don't."

Another slow deep breath. "Let…me…choose…"

"Please, Tim. Don't do this! Don't. I can't understand how you're feeling, but please…I can't watch you die, not now…not ever."

"Only way…to stop…"

"No, Tim. There's _always_ another way. Please, don't give up."

Tim just sighed and let his eyes close again. Abby tightened her grip on his hand as if she could change how he felt just by the strength of her own fingers around his. She jumped when Eric put a hand on her shoulder. She had forgotten he was even there.

"Well done, Abby."

She shook her head, dashing tears from her cheeks as she did so. "He still wants to die."

"…but he's _not_ dead. I've seen people who should have recovered with no complications die…for no other reason than that they wanted to. Some part of him _wants_ to live. His core temp is up to 88 degrees. That's two degrees warmer than he was when we left the falls. Keep the faith, Abby. Sometimes that makes all the difference."

"How is he?" Tristan called back.

"Getting warmer and conscious briefly although he's out again. I don't think we'll need lavage this time."

"We're thirty seconds out."

When they reached the hospital, Eric gently, but firmly, forced Abby to let go of Tim's hand, telling her that she'd have to wait. Then, Tim was gone. She looked toward the doors through which he'd disappeared and wrapped her arms around herself, looking for comfort, but knowing there was none to be had until the rest of the team arrived. She wandered down the hall, looking for the waiting room…to wait until she could see Tim alive again.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It is awful, Jethro, but not entirely surprising," Ducky said as they followed the ambulance. He looked back once and saw that Ziva was driving Tony's car. Apparently, Tony's desire to keep the pace outweighed his concern for his vehicle. He smiled a little at the thought. "Timothy's emotions have been difficult to predict, but this…it is unfortunately, an all-too-common outcome."

"Why was he saying that he didn't want to die only to change his mind a few hours later?" Gibbs said, vacillating between anger and fear as he sped down the highway.

"I don't know, Jethro, but I'd guess that Timothy himself was truly undecided. Something happened that made him settle on suicide. He didn't give you any sign?"

"He almost drowned, Ducky," Gibbs said finally. "He was sleeping in his own bed and he started to drown." Gibbs heard the anxiety in his own voice and struggled to quash it. "All it took was a dream of water and he thought he was in it. …I actually thought I might not be able to get him out."

"What happened after that?"

"I tried to get him to think about other things, happier things. It worked…briefly. This is all he's thinking about. …and then, I fell asleep. He snuck out during that time."

"He would have found a way, Jethro. People who want to end their lives always do…even if, as in this case, they are unsuccessful. Don't blame yourself."

"No, I _should_ blame myself…for letting him go to that incompetent shrink!" Gibbs said, letting his anger push away his worry. "I _should_ have throttled him."

"Incompetent, yes. Deserving of death? No. Jethro, we have to accept that in the end, it is entirely up to Timothy. It is true that this shouldn't have happened, but we can't absolve him of all responsibility. That would be an injustice…to Timothy. We also cannot adequately address the problem if we don't focus on the one that matters most. Timothy made this choice and we need to hear his reasons…and then show him _why_ he is wrong and just _how_ he can still live."

"Can we do that, Ducky?"

"We can only hope, Jethro."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"What are you thinking, Tony?" Ziva asked, one car behind.

"That I should have driven myself," Tony said, but his heart wasn't in it.

"No, about McGee."

"I'm trying not to."

"Why?"

"Because I can't figure it out…and it's easier to pretend it didn't happen…at least for now," Tony said in a moment of pure honesty. He stared out the window, watching the trees as they flew by. "I wonder when McGee chose this place. I wouldn't have thought he'd want to remember it."

"Why not? It is a beautiful place," Ziva protested.

"Oh, I forgot, this is before your time. McGee had a close encounter with poison ivy near here."

"How close? He did have a problem with it before."

"This was worse. It was everywhere, on his face," Tony said, smiling at the memory. "Ah the joys of being the newbie."

"Perhaps he was able to see around that…maybe not."

"What do you mean?"

"Did you not wish to avoid this topic, Tony?"

Tony looked back at Ziva and then at Gibbs' car ahead of them. "It's kind of hard to…when we're heading to the hospital to see if McGee managed to commit suicide. So…what do you mean?"

"I mean that of all the places he could have chosen to kill off his character and to kill himself, he chose a place with dubious memories. Perhaps it was an intentional choice…but perhaps not. Perhaps it was merely his own imagination that created such a place."

They lapsed into silence for a time. Then…

"I thought he was better," Tony said softly.

"As did I," Ziva admitted.

"Are we there yet?" he asked, a smile on his face.

"No, Tony. We are not. If you would like, I could probably arrive at the hospital _before_ the ambulance," Ziva said, playing the game.

"No, that's all right. We'd probably need ambulances ourselves." Tony smiled but couldn't keep it up. "This shouldn't have happened."

"No. You are right…but it has and we must make sure that it does not happen again."

Tony nodded and they fell silent again, thinking only of the ambulance, just out of sight up the road.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"He's up to 94 degrees and still climbing."

"Where was he?"

"Dark Hollow."

"Are his friends all those people out in the waiting room?"

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure they must be."

"It's an interesting group. I think I caught two different accents out there."

"This an attempted suicide?"

"According to Eric…the British guy said he's been through a lot in the last couple of months."

"There's a little swelling from the head trauma, but not much. He was lucky."

"If he was a suicide, he may not feel that way when he wakes up…"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I don't know any of their numbers, Tony. I already told you that…twice," Abby said as she huddled on one of the chairs, her arms still tightly wrapped around herself.

Gibbs pulled out his phone and began dialing, walking away from the group as he did so.

"I just thought that you'd be the most likely one to know. You and McGee hang out the most. You probably know him better."

A few tears fell down Abby's cheeks. "I _thought_ I did…but obviously I was wrong. I don't know him at all. Tim wants to die! I've never seen him act like this before! I don't know him anymore."

"Hey…" Tony sat on the arm of the chair and put an arm around Abby's shoulders. "He's still McGeek. You still know him. He's just…just…"

"…just trying to _kill_ himself, Tony!" Abby said loudly. "This wasn't an accident. The only accident is that he's still alive because if he hadn't fallen in the river, he would have been _dead_ before Gibbs and I got there!"

"But he's not dead, Abby! He's still alive, and he's going to stay that way," Tony said.

Abby stood up, letting all the panic and fear that she'd been holding back in the ambulance come out. "How can you know that, Tony? We can't be with him all the time! He'll be alone eventually. What's to stop him from trying again? People who are serious about suicide will try and try until they succeed! Tim's falling apart and _I_ don't know how to put him back together. Do _you_?"

Tony stood as well, but instead of getting angry, he gave a half smile and grabbed her shoulders. "No. I don't…but that doesn't mean it can't happen. Right?"

Abby snuffled.

"Right?" Tony asked again.

She tried to smile. "Right." Then, she started to sob and threw her arms around Tony. "Oh, Tony, I don't know what to do anymore!"

"Neither do I. We'll just figure it out as we go."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Hello? McGee residence."

Gibbs was glad that he was not facing Tim's mother in person. It was hard enough giving news like this without having to look them in the eye and say that you nearly failed to prevent their son from committing suicide.

"Mrs. McGee?"

"Yes, this Naomi McGee. Who is this?"

"This is Special Agent Gibbs, from NCIS."

"Oh, yes. Of course. Tim speaks very highly of you," she said, but there was an undercurrent of worry in her voice and she didn't waste time pretending that she was unconcerned. "What is it?"

"Is your husband there?"

"Yes, but I am quite capable of hearing whatever it is myself, Agent Gibbs."

"I'm sure of that, Mrs. McGee. I just think that your husband will want to hear this as well."

"Should I sit?"

"Possibly."

"Sam!" she called. "Get on the other phone! It's important!"

Gibbs could hear a faint acknowledgement and then the click as Tim's father joined the conversation.

He wondered how to put this. He couldn't even go by Tim's own personality because it was too contradictory to figure out how he would react in a given situation. He decided just to ask.

"Would you like the straight-up version or the softened version?"

There was a soft laugh and Sam McGee answered, "Tim always said you were unorthodox, Agent Gibbs. No one else would ask that kind of question. Please, straight up. There's no reason to cover up anything that we'll find out eventually anyway. It does no good."

"Yes, please, Agent Gibbs. What is it? Tim isn't dead, is he?"

"No."

"But…?"

"He tried to commit suicide early this morning. We're in a hospital in Luray, Virginia, waiting to see how he is."

There was a moment of deafening silence.

"Suicide?" Naomi asked, her voice carefully controlled.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Is this because of the case where he withheld evidence?"

"Partly, we think. He's still in emergency care and we don't know exactly what put him over the edge. He's been having trouble with his near-drowning as well."

"I thought he was in therapy," Sam said.

"He is," Gibbs said, deciding that Dr. Leavitt could stay out of it, for the moment.

"How?"

"How, what?"

"How did he try to commit suicide, Agent Gibbs?" Naomi asked quietly.

"He was going to drown himself." _More or less_…

"I see."

Gibbs himself could see where Tim got the knack of holding back emotions. Both of the McGees were reacting far too calmly to the news that their only son had nearly died…for the second time in three months.

"Where exactly_ is _Luray, Agent Gibbs?"

"Northwest of Shenandoah National Park."

Still in the same measured tone, Naomi asked, "How long do you anticipate he will be there?"

"At least today, probably longer."

Sam's voice shook a little, but he too remained calm. "Have you told Sarah? Does she know?"

"No. I thought it would be better coming from you."

"Thank you. Yes," Sam said. "It would be. He is not still in danger?"

"No. The doctors told us that he is recovering quickly, physically."

"Thank you. How did you stop him?" Naomi asked.

"Are you sure you want to talk about this now?" Gibbs asked.

"It will take us some time to get out the door, Agent Gibbs, and still longer to get to him. It would be better for us if we knew as much as possible," she answered firmly.

"All right. I didn't stop him. McGee slipped in the river and knocked himself out before he could go through with it. He had hypothermia when Abby and I found him and pulled him out. If he hadn't, he would be dead. It was luck."

"Perhaps luck that he slipped, Agent Gibbs," Sam said, softly. "Pearl Buck once said, 'The person who tries to live alone will not succeed as a human being. His heart withers if it does not answer another heart. His mind shrinks away if he hears only the echoes of his own thoughts and finds no other inspiration.' Our son has occasionally struggled with that feeling, but if he were truly alone, no one would have found him. I doubt it was luck that you were looking. Thank you for being there."

"We have a lot to do, Agent Gibbs," Naomi interjected. "Thank you for calling us. We will get there as soon as we can."

Gibbs said good-bye and hung up. Then, he walked back to the others.

"You found them, Gibbs?" Abby asked.

"Yes."

"And?" Tony prompted.

"They're coming."


	33. Chapter 33

**Chapter 33**

It was another hour before the doctor came to tell them that Tim was out of recovery. They were only allowed to visit two at a time, although in the circumstances, they did not have to leave him alone. To everyone's surprise, Abby did not want to go first. Instead, she sat on one of the chairs and drew her knees to her chest. The result was that Tony and Ziva headed down the hallway to Tim's room, trailing behind the doctor.

"He's been heavily-sedated. He might wake up enough to hear you, but more than likely he'll stay asleep. Now that he's out of recovery and can have visitors, we've dialed back on the sedatives, but it will be a few hours before they filter from his system."

Tony cocked his head to one side. "What do we do then?"

The doctor smiled. "Talk to him. Be there. We don't have a psych staff here, and we didn't want to have to restrain him, but as an attempted suicide, we can't leave him alone in his room."

Tony and Ziva both tried not to envision Tim strapped to a hospital bed. They both failed and it wasn't a pleasant image that came into their minds. Tony nodded weakly and stepped into the room. Tim was lying on the bed. They both were silent as they took in the image of Tim, pale and bandaged, covered in heavy blankets, his eyes closed in a drug-induced sleep. All the lines of stress, anxiety and anguish had been smoothed out of his face, lines that they hadn't even realized were there, making Tim look much much younger and more innocent.

Tony sat down on a chair beside the bed. Ziva sat on the other side. They both just looked at Tim and then at each other, neither one able to think of anything to say. While they would never have thought consciously about it, Tim was the one person they had considered easy to describe. He was the computer guy, the awkward one, the least experienced, McGeek. He didn't have the complex and conflicted emotions that would lead to this kind of action. It wasn't that they thought he had no emotions at all, but this was _Tim_…

…and yet, they stared at him and realized that they had not really ever understood him…nor had they tried to. They had accepted the image he put forward to the world without question, and now they were finding out that there was so much more to him than that image. Ziva looked away from Tim and met Tony's gaze. She read there the same emotions, the same feeling of shocked confusion. _When did McGee become __like this..._

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

"What?" Sarah asked and nearly dropped her cell phone in shock. "That's...that's not possible, Dad. No."

"Sarah, what's wrong?"

Sarah didn't hear her friend. She stood up from the desk and walked a few steps away. "When? How? What should I do?"

"Calm down, Sarah. Tim's still alive. Your mother and I are on our way to Luray."

"Well, how am _I_ supposed to get there?" Sarah asked. "I can't just sit here. I can't…do my homework while Tim may be dying!"

"He's _not_ dying," Sam said quickly. "He's going to make it, but he's…having trouble."

"Really? I never would have guessed that, Dad. I thought normal people tried to kill themselves all the time!"

"Sarah!" Sam said, sternly.

Sarah subsided, her emotions whirling. "I'm sorry, Dad."

"Now, we should be at the hospital in about an hour. We'll let you know if they're going to move him or if we'll need to come and get you. Just stay calm, okay? Tim's not going to die."

"Dad…" Sarah began.

"He won't, Sarah. Tim's already pulled through once. He can do it again. It will just be harder this time."

"Okay…just…tell him I…love him, okay?"

"I will, and you can tell him yourself later."

"Okay…" Sarah hung up and turned around to look at her friend, Lisa. "My brother almost died…again!" She started to cry and let Lisa hug her and tell her it would all be okay.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

"Have you ever thought about it, Tony?" Ziva asked, a couple of hours later.

"About what?"

"About suicide?"

"You mean for myself?"

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Yes, for yourself. If you were thinking about it for someone else, it would not be _sui_cide now would it?"

Tony rolled his eyes in return. "That's not what I meant…and no, I haven't, not seriously anyway."

"What does that mean?"

"Life gets hard sometimes, but that doesn't mean I want to die, just that death sometimes seemed easier." Tony shrugged. "What about you?"

"Me?"

"Yes. You asked me. I answered. It's your turn."

Ziva looked at Tony and then looked down at Tim again. He had stirred once, but his eyes had not opened. "Yes. I have…never long enough to actually do it, of course…but I have."

"When?"

"None of your business," Ziva said shortly. "As I told you, I never went through with it. I am much different from McGee in that respect. I do not have any insight into why he thought killing himself would be a good idea."

"Maybe he was trying to get attention."

"By throwing himself over a waterfall?"

"Isn't that what they always say about unsuccessful suicides? They were trying to get someone to notice them?"

"If that was the case, why would he sneak out and drive so far, just to…as you say, get attention? That does not make any sense."

"Okay, then, why?" Tony asked. There was a hint of pleading in his words. He really wanted to understand what had placed Tim in this situation.

"I do not know, Tony. I am not McGee. He asked me why he did what he did once, and I told him he was afraid. Maybe that is the same case now…but perhaps I was mistaken in both cases."

"McGee wouldn't kill himself because he was scared, Ziva. That's not him," Tony said, firmly. Subconsciously, he was searching for something that would prove that Tim really _hadn't_ been committing suicide. He just didn't know how to respond to such an action…at least not of someone he knew.

Ziva locked eyes with Tony. "_I_ would not have thought that McGee would attempt suicide at all. Perhaps we do not know him as well as we thought."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

In fact, Tim was awake while Tony and Ziva were talking. At first, he was only vaguely aware of their presence. They were merely a source of comforting noise. As the drugs filtered from his system and he became more and more conscious, and as he remembered more and more of his own emotional turmoil, he heard them talking about _him_, about what _he_ was thinking. What did they know about how he felt! Nothing! They knew _nothing_ and they had no _right_ to talk about him that way. He struggled to achieve a level of consciousness that would allow him to tell them so, but it was slow in coming. He nearly panicked when he realized that he couldn't move. Ironically, only the continuing conversation between Tony and Ziva convinced him that he was safe.

"…I mean, he _wrote_ about it, Ziva! Gibbs told us about how he was writing…in the bathroom! He nearly killed himself once already!"

"Yes, but that does not mean that he just went crazy and thought he was McGregor. Maybe that was the only way he could think of to explain himself."

Another rush of anger shot through Tim's veins as he listened. He wasn't even trying to figure out how he was feeling. That was too hard, too painful. Instead, he let the rage take the place of all the fear, anxiety, guilt and pain he felt…anger could erase that overload…if only for awhile. Finally, he felt like he could move again and with that rush of relief came a sense of determination. He would _not_ be under someone else's power, not again. He opened his eyes and noticed with annoyance that the room was spinning. Holding tight to his irrational anger, he blinked fiercely trying to get rid of the sensation.

"McGee!" The joy in Tony's voice was unfeigned, but Tim didn't notice it. He looked from Tony to Ziva and noted with satisfaction that their expressions froze at his gaze.

"Where's Gibbs?" he asked, his voice soft.

"I'm not sure, McGee. I think he's talking to…"

"I want to talk to him," Tim broke in.

"Are you sure, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"I think _I_ know what I'm thinking, Ziva," Tim bit out. "I don't need you two to psychoanalyze me. I want to talk to Gibbs. Can you do that or not?"

"Yes, McGee, I think we can handle that," Tony said slowly.

The two of them left Tim alone. He watched them go, feeling simultaneously relieved and afraid. If only Gibbs had let him die, then this wouldn't be happening at all! It would all be over! No more pain. No more _anything_, just the welcome release, just the freedom from himself.

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"There it is," Sam said, pointing. "Memorial Drive."

"I see it," Naomi answer and turned the wheel sharply. In the back of the car, Sam's wheelchair slid from side to side, clanging against the car as it had been ever since they had left.

"You didn't strap it in?" Sam asked, finally.

"I did, but I was in a hurry," Naomi said, tonelessly.

Sam sat quietly, looking at his wife. She'd been holding back her worries fairly well thus far, but he knew it was only a matter of time. In fact, he wouldn't be surprised if she broke down as soon as she was finished driving. They didn't speak until they pulled into the parking lot of Page Memorial Hospital. Naomi put the car in park and began to undo her seatbelt. Sam reached out and grabbed her hand. She went still and looked at him.

"What are we going to do, Sam?" she asked, tears glistening in her eyes.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. Be there for him. I don't think we can do anything else."

Naomi leaned over and let Sam put his arms around her. She began to cry. "How did this happen? Why…why did Tim fall apart? He was always so insistent that he was okay. No one ever called us to say that he was having trouble. And now…now we're in _Luray_ of all places and our son is in the hospital…after trying to _kill himself_! What happened, Sam?"

"I don't know, Naomi. I wish I could just tell you. My doctorate is not in psychology," he said softly. "But…this is just like Tim. He's never been open about how he feels. He never told us about his breakdown in college either, remember. I don't know how we can get him to open up, but he's an adult and we can't force him."

"I know all that, Sam…but he's my _son_. He's _your_ son…and he almost…"

"But he didn't. Hold onto that. His friends didn't let him."

Naomi just sighed. Sam continued to hold her and let her cry. She didn't like crying in public, and whatever emotions she might let out in front of Tim, she would be composed for everyone else. Sam hated the feeling of impotence that all this gave him, though. It was worse than being paralyzed because at least with his chair he could get around and do things for himself. What could he do now to keep his family from falling apart?

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Without the sound of Tony and Ziva talking, Tim was left with the silence…only it wasn't completely silent. Still, on the edge of his hearing, the water poured from the tap into the tub; it gushed over the precipice; it was there, just like it always was. The anger was being leeched away by the volume of the water surging in his head. He couldn't hold it back; he had no strength left to push it away. Instead, he struggled to hold onto the anger that blocked his other emotions. He didn't notice when his fingers curled and his nails began digging into the flesh of his palms. He closed his eyes, trying to keep control.

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"Boss?" Tony said hesitantly.

"What, Tony?" Gibbs asked, not even looking up.

"McGee wants to talk to you," Ziva said in a muted tone.

Gibbs lifted his head. "He's awake?"

"Yes."

Gibbs stood quickly and then took in their expressions. "What?"

"He's…not very happy, Boss."

Gibbs nodded in acknowledgment and headed down the hall.

"Gibbs, wait!"

Gibbs turned around and saw Abby running up behind him.

"I'm coming with you! I was sitting there thinking that I was being stupid. I shouldn't be afraid of seeing him. I should be happy that he's alive and I should be there."

"Abby…"

"No, Gibbs. I'm coming."

"He's not going to be happy to see us, you know."

"Maybe, maybe not. I need to see him…_I'm_ happy to see _him_."

Gibbs could see that she wouldn't be dissuaded, although he was worried that it would be a bad idea. It took a lot to make Tony and Ziva surprised…and they were definitely surprised. That did not bode well. Gibbs paused just before he stepped into the room and looked back at Abby. She didn't speak but looked at him stubbornly. _She's an adult,_ he thought, grimly. _It's her choice whether or not she wants to see McGee this way._ He opened the door.

Tim was lying in bed, his eyes tightly closed, his hands clenched into tight fists. Whatever he was thinking about must be pretty bitter. Gibbs waited for a few seconds and then spoke.

"McGee?"

Tim's eyes flew open and Gibbs saw a flash of relief which was quickly supplanted by a fierce anger. He had never seen it in Tim's eyes before, and it was actually a little frightening.

"You wanted to speak to me?" he said, keeping his voice even.

For a full minute, Tim just stared at him, his breathing shallow. Then, a single strangled word, barely above a whisper, dropped from his lips. "Why?"

"Why what, McGee?" Gibbs asked calmly.

"Why did you stop me?" Tim screamed, suddenly finding breath for more than a whisper. "Why…why are you putting me through all this?"

"All what?"

Gibbs' even tone, his calm, seemed to enrage Tim all the more. "Why are you making me live? I told you! I told you how I felt! I _trusted_ you! You said you would help me! You said you understood! I can't lose any more limbs, Boss! I _can't_! I _won't_! I won't do this anymore!" Tim's eyes were filled with tears as he continued to rage. Abby was actually taking shelter behind Gibbs in the face of the manic fury Tim was expressing. Gibbs, on his part, was shocked by the depth of Tim's pain, but he was carefully _not_ showing it. Replying in kind wouldn't help, but perhaps letting Tim vent it all would.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Sam and Naomi walked into the hospital and looked around.

"Can I help you?"

They looked over at the desk and nodded. "Our son is here. Can you tell us which room?"

"Oh, you're here for the NCIS agent, right?" the nurse asked.

"How did you know?"

The nurse smiled. "This is a small hospital. It mostly serves locals. You don't qualify, and Mr. McGee is the only out-of-towner here at the moment."

"Oh," Naomi said, nonplussed. "Can you tell us his room number, then?"

"Sure. Just go up to the second floor. He's in room 21, fourth down on the left."

"Thank you," Naomi replied and walked to the elevator, Sam wheeling beside her.

"I love small towns," Sam said, grinning.

"You would, Sam," Naomi answered, but she also smiled a little.

Together they got on the elevator, feeling nervous about seeing their son.

-------------------------------------------------------------------

"I thought you were my _friend_!" Tim shrieked.

"I am, McGee," Gibbs answered.

"No! You're just like him! All you're doing is making it worse! I made a choice, Boss! I finally made a decision! I knew what I wanted! I _knew_!" Tim's voice cracked as he continue to shout. "Instead of being at the mercy of someone else, I chose for myself!" He broke off, as the tears began to pour down his cheeks.

"Tim…" Abby said hesitantly.

Tim looked at her and she recoiled at the turmoil in his eyes. "You helped him," he whispered, losing his voice just for a moment. "You did this…"

"That's what friends do, McGee," Gibbs said, taking the focus off Abby who looked ready to burst into tears.

"Friends don't do that, Boss. Friends don't cause pain," Tim said, his voice rising once again. "…and you stopped me! You _forced_ me to live! Even when I fell, I was still going to die! Why couldn't you just let me? I couldn't even move! I couldn't choose…I couldn't…I couldn't even _die!_ Why? Why, Boss? Why are you making my life so miserable? All I wanted was for it all to stop! I found a way to stop it! Why didn't you let me?"

"Tim?" A soft voice cut through the shouts and made them all turn. Gibbs saw the two people who must be Tim's parents. Naomi, a tall composed woman, her dark brown hair streaked with gray, stood motionless next to…the man who must be Sam. Tall or short was unclear. He was in a wheelchair, his legs folded uselessly and supported by the foot rests. He was looking, not at Gibbs and Abby, but at Tim who had fallen silent at his voice.

"No…" Tim whispered. He shook his head in denial and then shouted again. "No! I don't want to see any of you! I hate you! Go away! Leave me alone! Just let me _die_!"

Then, Sam and Naomi were pushed to the side as his doctor and a nurse came in the room. Tim tracked in on the syringe they carried and slid instantly from anger to abject terror. "No! No! Don't! Don't do that to me again! No drugs! I can't…" His words began to deteriorate as he began to fight against the doctor putting the sedative into the IV. His eyes moved from the doctor to Gibbs who suddenly understood what he meant.

"Wait!" he said, quickly. "Wait! Stop!"

Too late, the drug had already been injected. Tim stopped fighting and looked hopelessly at the IV that was already circulating the sedative through his system. Tears welled up in his eyes which slowly began to close, although he fought it. He looked at Gibbs in terror. "Trapped…" he said.

Gibbs looked at Tim with regret. "I'm sorry, Tim," he said quietly. He then rounded on the doctor. "Why did you do that?"

"He was out of control, liable to hurt himself or even one of you. Sedation is better than restraints."

"You don't understand," Gibbs said. "He nearly drowned a couple of months ago and he was paralyzed at the time. The man who tried to kill him gave him some sort of muscle relaxant. This feels the same to him."

The doctor looked horrified. "We can't do anything about it, now. It's a short-term sedative. It will only last a couple of hours." She turned back to Tim, but his eyes were now narrowed to slits. He was fighting the sedative for all his worth, but he couldn't keep himself awake. His eyes finally closed.

Gibbs looked from Tim to his parents, who were still frozen in shock. The composure was gone from Naomi's face. She was holding Sam's hand tightly and fighting back tears.

Sam stared at his son for a long time. Then, he looked at Gibbs. "Agent Gibbs?" he asked.

"Yes."

"What…" Sam had to stop and clear his throat. "What happened to our son?"


	34. Chapter 34

**Chapter 34**

Before Gibbs could answer, Tony, Ziva and Ducky all burst into the room, looking around to find what had happened.

"We…we heard McGee screaming," Ziva said. "What's going on?"

"Why is he out again?" Tony asked.

Ducky looked at the doctor. "You gave him a sedative…to calm him down, correct?"

"Yes."

Ducky didn't comment further. Instead, he just shook his head with worry.

There was an awkward pause as the room full of people all looked at each other, some for the first time.

"Would you like to go out to the waiting room?" the doctor asked.

"I'm not leaving my son," Sam said quietly. He said no words of blame, but his tone brooked no argument. The doctor began to try and shoo some of the others from the room, but another look from Sam made her subside. She just nodded and left. The team looked silently at Sam and Naomi who stared back without speaking.

"You must be Abby," Sam said, finally. He rolled forward and held out his hand. "I'm Sam."

Abby smiled, but her tear-streaked face belied her expression. "Nice to finally meet you."

"Likewise," Sam said, smiling kindly. "You've been a regular subject of conversation ever since he first met you. He even sent us a picture of you because he said we wouldn't believe that he would be attracted to a Goth." Sam chuckled. "But I told him that Coleridge had it right."

Abby sniffled a little, but her smile grew a bit wider. "Coleridge?"

"Yes. He said, 'Sympathy constitutes friendship; but in love there is a sort of antipathy, or opposing passion. Each strives to be the other, and both together make up one whole.'"

Abby blushed.

"Now, don't worry. I'm not going to play matchmaker," he said. Then, he looked around at the rest of the room. He smiled at them all. It was a sad smile, but it was genuine. "I'm Sam. I think I can guess who you all are." He wheeled himself over to Tony. "You must be Tony. Tim's told me a lot about you and your seemingly endless supply of movie trivia and semi-insulting nicknames."

"Only semi…?" Tony said weakly as he shook Sam's hand.

"Only…" Sam smiled. "Every time you come up with a new one, Tim's called me to tell me so I can add it to the list. I'm really quite amazed."

"Glad I could help."

Sam then looked at Ziva. "You're Ziva. Tim told me once that he never wanted you to get angry at him but that you were also one of the best people to have on his side."

"Does he talk about us much?" Ziva asked, obviously a little flattered.

"All the time. Whenever he calls. He's also mentioned your proclivity towards messing up English idioms."

"Has he," Ziva said, returning his grin.

"Yes. I've used some of your more unique phrases in my classes." Then, he looked at Ducky. "And you must be Ducky."

"Indeed," Ducky said and shook his hand.

"According to Tim, I'm apparently going to be you in twenty years."

"Why is that?"

"I guess we both have a tendency to maunder," Sam said. Naomi gave a sad chuckle behind him. "I'm forever using quotations to prove my points. My children tire of it occasionally."

"So was that an insult to you? To me? Or was it a compliment?" Ducky asked.

"You know, I'm not sure. I'll take it as a compliment." Sam looked around at them all. "Tim has talked about you all in such great detail. It's great to finally meet you. It's like you're another family…at least to hear Tim talk."

"Sam, you're starting to babble," Naomi said. She walked around the room and shook everyone's hands. "I'm Naomi. I…" She paused and collected herself. Gibbs was strongly reminded of Tim in that instant. "I am…I can't tell you how grateful I am that you all are here, that you _were_ there this morning. I'm sure my husband can think of something pithy to throw in there, but…all I can say is thank you."

No one spoke in response. Meeting Tim's parents and finding that _they_ had been spoken of so often was a surprise. Even Ducky was without words.

Sam had been smiling, but he looked at his son again and sobered instantly. "At the moment…I can't think of anything. I look at my son and…I almost feel that I don't know who he is."

"What happened, Agent Gibbs? How did Tim get…like this?" Naomi asked, gesturing toward the hospital bed. She walked over to Tim, picked up one of his limp hands and rubbed it gently. Sam wheeled over beside her and pulled her gently down onto one of the chairs. Gibbs sat down as well and began to explain what had been happening over the past few weeks. Occasionally, Ducky would interject, but mostly, they all just listened to Gibbs.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"And now?" Naomi asked when Gibbs finished.

"I'm not sure," Gibbs said.

"Timothy must make the choice," Ducky answered. "We can only show him that there _is_ a choice to make because, based on what he's been saying to us, he doesn't feel there is one. He feels that all he can do is die, whether he wants it or not."

A soft sigh drew everyone's eyes to the bed. Tim drew in a deep shuddering breath and let it out slowly. His eyes were still closed, but he seemed to be waking up.

"Tim?" Naomi said softly.

Tim's eyes fluttered open briefly. They were full of pain. He let out his breath in short spurts as he began to regain consciousness. His eyes closed again and his breath became louder and more ragged. Then, his eyes flew open and he made strange choking noises. He didn't move at all, but the absolute terror in his eyes was an encore of what had happened the night before and Gibbs felt his heart drop into his stomach at the sound. He moved to the bed and gently tried to shake Tim awake, but as had been the case the first time, it had no effect. Sam and Naomi seemed frozen in shock at the sight of their son in such trauma, and Gibbs looked at Ducky. He began to approach the bed as well, but before he could say anything, Naomi shook off her shock, leaned over, put her arm around Tim and whispered to him.

"It's just a dream, dear. Remember, it's only a dream. Nothing can hurt you in this bed. You're safe. We're here with you. You're not alone." She kept up a comforting flow of words as only a mother can do, not allowing one jot of her fear for Tim's life escape as Tim continued to gasp for the air that should be so easily taken in. "Come now, Tim. It's over. You had a nightmare, but it's over. You're not drowning. You're not hurting. You're safe."

Tim's breathing slowly began to calm. He took in deep breaths and his eyes closed once more as he tried to regain control. Everyone sighed softly in relief. Then, his eyes opened again. He looked at his mother for a long moment and pushed her away. Only Naomi's eyes revealed the hurt she obviously felt at such rejection. He didn't shout again. He just shook his head and pulled back. "No. No. Go away…go away. Leave me alone."

"Timothy McGee," Sam said, sternly.

Tim closed his eyes again and put his hands to his head. "No. I don't…I don't want this. No…"

"Look at me, Timothy!" The level of command in Sam's voice rivaled Gibbs himself, and years of listening to his father forced Tim to open his eyes and stare in utter desolation.

"Please…" he whispered.

"Timothy," Sam said slowly. "There is a better chance that I will suddenly stand and begin walking than there is that we will leave you alone. Do you understand?"

"Dad…" Tim whispered, still not looking away, still pleading.

"I said, do you understand," Sam repeated.

Tim nodded, dislodging a few tears.

Sam never broke eye contact. No one interrupted. "We won't let you die, Tim."

Tim made the same attempt at holding back his emotions that Naomi had, but he was too frayed, too damaged to succeed. He couldn't speak above a whisper. "It hurts, Dad. It just hurts so much."

Sam grabbed Tim and pulled him into his arms. Tim pulled back, not wanting to be comforted when he couldn't conceive of any possibility of comfort, but Sam would not let him go. He put his arms around Tim and hugged him tightly. Tim began to sob wordlessly.

"I know it hurts, Tim. That's why we're here. You don't have to go through this alone. You never did. You just need to let us help."

"It's too hard…" Tim wept.

"No, it's not. You just think it is." Sam lowered his voice. "I've been through all this, remember? I _know_ how it feels." Sam felt Naomi place her hand on his shoulder. They rarely talked about this anymore, about his period of intense depression following his paralysis, but it was always there.

"I…I don't know what else to do," Tim cried.

"You live through it, Tim. One day at a time. You tell yourself that you can live for five more minutes, for one more hour, for a day. The pain will go away eventually."

"No, it's only been getting worse."

"Things get worse before they get better. You're not alone, Tim. We won't leave you."

"I just…I can't do it anymore, Dad! I can't!"

"Tim?" Gibbs' voice made everyone jump. Sam didn't let Tim go, but he felt his son stiffen slightly. "You told me yesterday that you didn't want to die. Do you _want_ to die now?"

Tim was silent, his face hidden in Sam's shoulder.

"Do you, Tim?"

Everyone waited.

Tim's head made a negative motion. "But it hurts…"

"If your leg was broken, it would hurt wouldn't it?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes, of course."

"Would you kill yourself to make it stop?"

"No."

"This is the same thing. I believe that it hurts, but it won't last forever."

"How do I make it stop?" Tim asked, his voice muffled.

"You let us help you heal instead of giving up," Gibbs answered.

"Can you do that, Tim? Let us help?" Sam asked. "At least _try_?"

Tim pulled back and looked at his father; then, he shifted his gaze to his mother and he mouthed _I'm sorry_. She just shook her head and smiled. Then, almost fearfully, he let his eyes wander around the room to its other occupants. A very small part of him was embarrassed that they had seen him this way, but through the intense pain that still roiled in his brain, he felt…grateful for their presence. That surprised him. A few hours ago, all he had wanted was for everyone to leave and let him die. Now, that feeling was still there…but it was somehow muted.

"If you can't try for yourself, will you try for us?" Sam asked.

Tim looked back at Sam, knowing that he couldn't lie to his father. He took a deep breath and nodded, not trusting himself to speak aloud. As he let Sam hug him again, he wondered if he was promising more than he could give.

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It was late, after midnight, when Tony finally got up his courage enough to go back into Tim's room. Technically, everyone should be heading back to work, but Gibbs had called Jenny and told her what had happened. They now had a few days grace to try and help Tim…at least _function_. Tony didn't know how they'd do that, but at least Tim was no longer trying to kill himself…for the moment.

Tony stopped outside the door. This wasn't what he wanted to be doing. He wanted to be home in his bed or on his couch watching yet another movie. He wanted this whole event to have never happened, but as Ziva had said before, whether he wanted it or not, it had happened. Now, they had to make sure it didn't happen again. Tony nodded and forced himself to open the door. Sarah was there, asleep on a fold-out cot. Gibbs and Abby had picked her up and brought her to the hospital earlier that evening. Sam couldn't spend the night in his wheelchair, and so she had said she would stay. Tim seemed to be asleep as well, and Tony nearly turned around to leave.

"Tony?" came the whispered voice.

Tony turned back around. Tim's eyes were open wide, staring at him. He didn't look sleepy at all. "Hey, Probie," he whispered back, not wanting to wake Sarah.

Tim opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. He looked awkward.

"What is it, McGee?"

Tim swallowed and looked annoyed at himself. Tony understood why when he noticed the tears well up again. Tim had been crying too much. He had too many _reasons_ to cry.

"C-Could you stay?"

"Sure. No problem." Tony closed the door silently behind him.

"It's just…" Tim tried valiantly to hold back the tears, but they came anyway. "Every time I go to sleep, it's always there."

"What is?"

Tim moved his hands out in a gesture of helplessness. "Everything."

Tony tried to think of something to say and then blurted out the first idea that came into his head. "What was that poem?"

"What poem?"

"Uh…something about death blows. Did you write it?"

"No. Emily Dickinson," Tim said. "A death blow is a life blow to some."

"Did you mean that?"

"Yes. I did. I do." Tim wiped away the tears and looked Tony in the eye. "I'm trying, Tony. I really am, but I can't see any way out."

"That's what you have us all around for. Surely, the eight of us together can think of _something_."

Tim let out a soft laugh. "I'm sure you can think of something, Tony. Something useful? That's a little less certain."

"Wow, wounded me to the core, Probie," Tony said, his hand melodramatically on his heart. He sat down in one of the chairs near the bed. "Tell me why, McGee."

"Why what?"

"Why we're all guests of the wonderful town of Luray. Why Ducky called me at five in the morning, begging for a ride to Shenandoah. Why you thought…think there is no other way out."

Tim looked away and his eyes fell on Sarah's sleeping form. She hadn't said much when she came.

"All she said was that she loved me," he whispered.

Tony followed his gaze. "From what I understand, that's what siblings do."

Tim sighed. "I didn't want to respond."

"Why not? I know you don't hate her. You showed that pretty clearly."

"I don't."

"Then, why, McGee?"

Tim slowly sat up and drew his knees to his chest. "I hate being cold. I feel cold all the time. Even when it's boiling hot, I'm cold inside. I want to be warm. I want to be…" He stopped and let his breath out in a rush. Sarah stirred slightly and then rolled over.

Tony was having a hard time following Tim's meandering conversation. It didn't seem to be making any sense. "McGee…you know I'm not as smart as you. I can't keep up here. What are you talking about?"

"Yesterday…everything was so clear to me. There was only one way…" Tim stopped again and wiped away more tears. "…now…there's…now, I'm cold again and I just want to be warm. When I could…ignore the…my family, my friends, it was so clear. I can't ignore you anymore. Dad…he asked me to try. I can't refuse, but…I wish I could." Tim looked earnestly at Tony. "Don't you understand? Everything inside me is screaming for me to just end it…and I'm saying no." His mouth twisted as he tried to keep himself from crying. "It's…it's _hard_, Tony. It's really hard."

Tony could see that Tim wasn't telling him everything. That was to be expected, he supposed. It wasn't like Tony invited confidences as a regular occurrence, but he wanted Tim to know that he _could_ if he wanted to…

"Do you know what one of the worst moments of my life has been, Tim?"

"When your car got stolen and wrecked?" Tim joked weakly.

"Close. That was a very traumatic time for me. I'll never forget the loss," Tony answered smiling in reply. Then, he sobered. "It was seeing you in that bathtub." Tim stiffened. "Tim, I don't think I've ever felt worse…or more afraid than I did when I opened the door and saw you there. I can't even fathom how you must have felt. I almost wish I could just so that I could…_understand_ what is driving you now. Because, honestly, I don't. I really don't, and I don't know what to say."

Tim's mouth opened and then closed quickly as he started to cry. "The worst moment was _being_ in that bathtub…Tony. I…I can't let it go…I don't know how. I was _drowning_. I was _dying_…and I…I couldn't stop it. I was conscious and I was dying. I didn't want to, but I was…and I couldn't…" Tim's eyes closed and his breathing sped up. He took one shuddering breath and continued. "…everything he did…to me…it was to make me suffer. I can't…I…every night…every day…What do I do? How can I…_live_ when I keep…feeling like I'm dying?"

Tony hesitated and then put his hand on Tim's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Tim. I really am. I wish…I wish I could say that it will all go away…but I can't." Tim's shoulders hunched in response. "But…I won't…you'll always have us here with you. Tim…you shouldn't ever feel that you're going through this on your own. I'm sorry I never thought that you might still be having trouble. It's easier for me that way."

Tim gave a shuddering laugh in response. "How about a lobotomy…maybe a brain transplant?"

"I don't think you'd want my head in your head, Probie. You have enough trouble with me when I'm across the room."

There was another weak laugh from the hunched figure. Neither of them spoke for awhile. Tim sat on his bed, and Tony sat on the chair. However, he kept his hand on Tim's shoulder. It was a simple gesture, but Tony couldn't think of anything better.

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Could we talk?"

"I thought we were."

"Not about that."

"About what, then?"

"Something…trivial?"

"Why?"

Tim lifted his head. "Because…I'm afraid to go back to sleep."

Tony smiled and nodded. "If there's one thing I can do, Probie. It's talk trivia."

Tim laid back on his bed, a very small smile on his face. "Okay, so tell me about a movie you saw recently."

"Well, I saw the second _National Treasure_."

"Any good?"

"As long as you don't want something deep."

"Shallow is good," Tim said softly.

"Shallow can be very good. It doesn't take itself too seriously and so it's fun."

"Tell me about it."

"Come on, McGee. You must have seen the teasers."

"Humor me, Tony."

"Okay…Riley is pretty good and you also get Nicholas Cage doing a terrible British accent. Helen Mirren plays his mother and she's appropriately gruff." Tony continued to talk about the movie, mixing in some of the lines he remembered. As he waxed philosophical about the various flaws in the movie, he saw Tim's eyes start to close. He was already speaking in a whisper, but he lowered his voice even further. Tim finally seemed to fall asleep, but just to check Tony added another sentence onto his commentary. "And so…I've decided that Sarah and I are meant to be and I'm going to sweep her off to the Canary Islands and make mad passionate love to your little sister." No response. "You must really be asleep. Otherwise you'd probably be killing me right now." Tony settled back in the chair, but kept his hand on Tim's shoulder, if for no other reason than he would be able to tell if Tim woke up again.

"Sweet dreams, McGee. I think you need them." Then, Tony closed his eyes and slept as well.


	35. Chapter 35

**Chapter 35**

Nicholas Cage was running through the house with a map of the United States in his hand. He was looking at it as if it gave him directions. Tim watched him in surprise, wondering when the actor had joined NCIS…although he supposed it made sense. He was pretty versatile. Tim followed him as he ran up the stairs…and up more stairs…and more stairs. He seemed pretty concerned about something. He turned the corner ahead of Tim and by the time Tim caught up…he wasn't Nicholas Cage anymore. He was Tony. Tim didn't have time to think about that because suddenly, he was looking at Tony through a shimmering wall…and he couldn't breathe. His arms felt like blocks of lead and he couldn't move them. Tony disappeared, leaving Tim all alone…but not for long. Smith hovered over the shimmering wall of water. The expression on his face was demented and gleeful. Tim wanted to get away, but he couldn't. The water was just barely above his head, but he couldn't move to get out of it. "No! No! I can't breathe!" Tim screamed. The fact that he could scream while drowning didn't seem to be a problem. "Help me!"

"Tim! Wake up!"

"Come on, Probie! Snap out of it!"

Tim heard the words and wondered who had spoken them. Then, he was shaking and a thought ran through his mind: _Maybe I'm asleep!_ The images disappeared, but the shaking remained. It was so dark. Why was it so dark? _If I'm asleep, then my eyes__ are__ closed_. Tim congratulated himself on the thought and pushed against the weights that appeared to be attached to his eyelids. His eyes opened and he took a deep breath of sweet air. Tony and Sarah were hovering over him. Sarah in particular looked terrified. _Where am I? What's going on?_ Tim wondered…then, like a tidal wave, everything came back. As the all-too-familiar pain crashed over him, he wanted to scream at the weight of it. He wanted to sever the strings that held him there. He wanted to reclaim the oblivion because it was only then that he didn't feel the pain.

"Are you okay, Tim?" Sarah asked, still leaning worriedly over him. As Tim looked from her to Tony and back, he knew he couldn't give in…he didn't know how he could _not_, but he knew he wouldn't be throwing himself off a cliff again. There was something about that…the thought vanished from his mind as he coughed painfully and sucked in more air.

"Probie? You in there? Speak a few words so that we know you're not on vacation," Tony said. His voice was light, but Tim could see the worry in his eyes. Tony was _worried_. Tim thought about that for a few seconds. Tony was only worried when things were really serious. Tim struggled to think beyond the pain and form a coherent sentence.

"I don't…" _Wow, I feel so…out of breath…_ "…have enough leave saved up for a vacation…" Tim managed to say. He tried to paste a smile on his face, something that would remove the fear from Tony's and Sarah's expressions. It didn't work. Come to think of it, and thinking of _anything_ besides the pain was well worth the effort, he felt rather trembly and sweaty. He must look about the same. "Sorry…" he said.

"Sorry for what, Tim? All you did was freak us out a little," Sarah said, a small edge in her tone that worried him. She tended to get combative when she was worried or scared.

"Where's…" Tim began and had to stop again for more air. He felt as though he hadn't been able to take a real breath for days. Every inhalation was hampered…_by what, exactly_, he wondered. _There's plenty of air…so why is it so hard to breathe?_

"Where's what, Tim?" Sarah asked, the worry now more pronounced. Tim realized that he'd forgotten to actually finish his sentence. Everything in his head felt blunted, like he couldn't function…except where his pain was concerned. That occupied a large black hole in his mind that seemed to be getting larger and larger, sucking everything important into its boundaries.

_Focus, Tim. They're still waiting_, he told himself. "Where's Mom and Dad?" he asked, forcing himself to finish the entire sentence before sucking in another deep breath.

"They should be here soon," Sarah said, still looking at Tim with concern.

"Okay," Tim said in reply. He didn't really know _what_ he should be saying or doing right now. His plans for the future had expired yesterday. He had nothing else right now…except to lay in this hospital bed and try to stave off the exquisite pain…and he wasn't doing a good job of that right now.

They all stared at each other in a tense silence...until Tony murmured something about needing to talk to Ziva about...something. Tim watched him leave and wondered how bad he really looked. He certainly felt bad enough to warrant people trying to get away from him.

Just as Tim felt as though he would have to scream or shout or do _something_ to release some of the pent up emotion, the door opened. He felt a slight easing of the pressure at the sight of his parents. Perhaps it was silly, but there was still a small part of him that expected them to be able to drive away the monsters in the closet…or in his mind. It didn't really make a difference where the monsters lived. He looked at them a little guiltily as he saw the worry etched in their faces. Another twist in his mind and he had to look away. He was causing so much trouble. He knew that his dad would have had to take off work to come, that they must have come in a hurry, that they probably forgot something important because they wouldn't have been thinking clearly, that Sarah had probably forgotten all about the big project she'd been working on when she heard the news, that his team was not working today so that they could be here for him. All this bother just because he couldn't hack it, just because he had screwed up so royally, just because he was stuck in this neverending cycle of…

"Tim, stop it," Sam said.

Tim blinked and looked at his hands. The edges of his sheets were crushed in his tight fists. He noticed that he felt light-headed again.

"Take a deep breath," Sam added. Tim did so and was amazed that the air seemed to do its job this time.

Tim blinked back tears. Hearing Sam tell him what to do, how to take another step, was like a tonic.

"I'm so sorry, Dad," he whispered as he looked at his hands. He couldn't seem to relax enough to let go of the sheet. He barely noticed when Naomi sat on the other side of him. She cupped one of his clenched fists in her hands and began to massage it. Tim barely noticed as his hand involuntarily relaxed under her ministrations. She started on the other hand.

"Stop apologizing, Tim. You're not doing anything wrong," Naomi said. Tim barely heard her. He was looking at Sarah who stood at the foot of the bed. He tried to think of something to say, something to make everything okay again, at least between them because as blunted as his own emotions were, he could feel her fear and he could see that she was nervous.

"We need to talk," Sam said, taking in all of them. "…as a family, because like it or not, Tim, this affects all of us." Tim winced and hunched his shoulders. "No, I'm not angry. I just want you to be open this time. Last time, you told us everything was okay, that you were getting the help you needed. That obviously wasn't the case, was it?"

Tim shook his head silently.

"Tim, you _are_ an adult, but we are still your family. You don't have to go it alone. I meant what I said. We're here and we're not going to leave you."

"No, we're not," Sarah said. She met Tim's eyes and didn't flinch away like she had before. She walked around and sat down on the foot of the bed. "I'm not mad at you, Tim. I'm just scared…for you."

Tim swallowed hard and tried to relax.

Sam smiled and said, "Well, then, I call this meeting of the McGee clan to order. Everyone present and accounted for?"

"Aye!" they all answered.

"Very well, let's get down to business then."

------------------------------------------------------------------

"Jethro! I need to speak to you!" Ducky said, hurrying down the hallway.

"Is it important, Duck?" Gibbs asked, taking a sip of the satisfactory coffee he'd been able to find. "I wanted to check on Abby." In truth, he was worried about her. She had hidden herself somewhere in the hospital after meeting Tim's parents. His accusation seemed to have hit her hard.

"Yes, this is important. I've found something that requires your attention," Ducky said very seriously. "I didn't get to this before, and I wish very much that I had. We have a serious problem."

"Beyond McGee?" he asked, a little sarcastically.

"Jethro…this is _about_ McGee."

Gibbs finally stopped walking and looked at Ducky. He was deadly serious. "What is it, Duck?"

"I put in a request for the records of Timothy's previous therapy sessions with _Dr_. Leavitt." Gibbs suddenly noticed that Ducky was not only serious; he was also livid. "It took some doing which surprised me. I actually had to get Jenny to lean on him."

"Wouldn't it be expected that you'd get McGee's information?"

"Yes, it would. I only received the documents on Friday. I didn't have a chance to go through them before all this happened, but I have spent the last few hours listening and reading."

"And?"

"And I'm beginning to come around to your opinion that we should kill him."

Gibbs blinked. Abby slipped from his mind, and he followed Ducky to the small office he'd been offered use of during his stay. Ducky gave him one of the transcripts and he began to read. About five minutes in, he set his coffee cup down and looked up at Ducky.

"Keep reading. It gets worse."

Gibbs began to skim through the transcription of a single session. The things that Dr. Leavitt had said to Tim were inexcusable…by _any_ standard. No doctor would say these things to a patient.

"Are you sure this is right? I'm no expert, but…" Gibbs lost his words. He was too shocked to even be angry. Anger would certainly come later on, but at the moment, he couldn't believe what he was reading. "What kind of a person would say these things? …to _anybody_?"

Ducky had gotten over his own shock already and his voice was rough with anger. "I'm tempted to use the word evil, but I'll just say a _disgusting_, amoral excuse for a human being."

"I like evil better," Gibbs said. "He was seeing Dr. Leavitt for over a month! How did we miss this?"

"The first few sessions are standard fare, Jethro, and Timothy did seem to be improving, according to Ziva, Tony and Abby. This one is from the last week of his suspension when the abuse is full scale."

Gibbs looked at the transcript again and felt _ill_. Tim had said _nothing_ about any of this. Everyone was blithely assuming that it was just a matter of switching to a better psychiatrist, one with better experience, more skills. They had had no idea of how damaged Tim had become. No wonder that his mind was finding it difficult to come to terms with what had happened.

"I _am_ going to kill him," Gibbs growled.

"No, Jethro."

"Do you see what he's _done_? What he did to Tim? What Tim almost did to _himself_ because of what he was told?" Gibbs said, nearly shouting. "This is more than cruel! This is…this is torture, Ducky!"

"I know, Jethro. That's why I wanted you to see it. This man should be investigated…but not killed."

Gibbs tried to rein in the white-hot rage that was boiling in his stomach. He wanted nothing more than to jump in his car, drive back to DC and beat Dr. Leavitt to death. Come to think of it, it would be useful to have Ziva there to help. Tony would probably be a good addition as well. …but no, he knew Ducky was right and no matter how much this pitiful piece of excrement deserved a long and painful death, that wouldn't help Tim at all…even if it would make Gibbs feel better. He took a deep breath.

"Have you told Jenny about this?"

"No, not yet. Would you like to do the honors?"

"I suppose I'd better. Why would McGee not have told you about this?"

"Timothy has a very deep-rooted respect for those in authority. He might have protested had Dr. Leavitt started out in this fashion, but he didn't. He did it gradually, working Timothy slowly into a position where he could say whatever he liked and he would be believed. Remember, Timothy was already having difficulty because of what he perceived as the ultimate betrayal, not only of his own values, but also of the trust of those with whom he worked. He half-believed all these things already. A real psychiatrist would have helped him see that it was not a betrayal, but Dr. Leavitt…"

Gibbs suddenly remembered how relieved Tim had seemed when he had been told that he would no longer be seeing Dr. Leavitt. That relief had been strangely intense, but now, seeing this, it must have seemed liked a lifesaver had been thrown to him when he was about to drown…and so he had struggled on, hoping that he would suddenly be okay, not realizing that no one understood what he was feeling, how he had been _made_ to feel about himself.

"Can you…_fix_ this, Ducky?" Gibbs asked.

Ducky shook his head. "I'm not sure. Anything is possible and now that we know, the odds are certainly better, but it will take time. I'll have to tell his parents…and we're going to need to talk to Timothy directly. The sooner, the better."

Gibbs nodded and stood up again, a different goal in mind than when he had first walked into the hospital. He left the office and hurried down the hall.

"DiNozzo!"

Tony had been in conversation with Ziva and sat up at attention. "Yes, Boss!"

"I need you to go back to DC."

"What?" Tony looked rebellious.

"Come with me. You too, Ziva."

They both stood and followed him, looking confused.

"Have either of you seen Abby?"

"Not recently, Boss."

"She was hiding in the cafeteria, last I saw her," Ziva said.

Gibbs didn't comment, but led them both into the office and gave them the rundown of what was going on. He showed them the transcript that Ducky had shown him. They both reacted about as well as he had.

"That..that…" Tony stopped when he failed to find a suitable epithet.

Ziva suffered no such failure, although whatever she said was in Hebrew and neither of them understood the words. The intention was crystal clear.

"Tony, I want you to go back to DC and see what you can dig up on Leavitt. He came very highly recommended as a therapist for McGee. I want to know why he suddenly took this tack…if it _was_ sudden, and if it wasn't, why no one caught it before."

"Can't we just kill him?" Tony muttered darkly.

"Unfortunately, no. Maybe later," Gibbs said. "Ziva…"

"Yes, Gibbs?" Ziva answered, finally switching back to English, although her voice was still thick with hatred. He had been about to suggest that she return with Tony, but he decided that was a dangerous idea, even with a 90-mile trip to calm down. The two of them would feed off each other.

"Go…find Abby."

"Find Abby…" Ziva said.

"Go! Both of you!" Gibbs ordered.

Ziva left, looking mutinous and Tony followed close behind her, looking furious…and a little sick. After they left, Gibbs sighed to himself and looked at the tape of the session. He put it in and began to listen:

_"You know why you're here, right, Tim?"_

_"Of course, this is part of my punishment."_

_"That's right. Only a single part."_

_"Yes."_

_"Do you realize how easy it would have been for you to avoid all this?"_

_"Yes."_

_"How?"_

Gibbs listened as Tim shifted uncomfortably, but when he resumed speaking, it was as though he was parroting things he'd already been told many times before.

_"If I had been honest, if I had trusted people to do their jobs, if I had done my job... Those people who died would still be alive__…and I wouldn't have almost died__."_

_"Exactly."_

_"But Abby said that…"_

_"Abby…your friend, right?"_

_"Yes…"_

_"Your friend to whom you lied and one of the people you betrayed."_

_"Yes…but…"_

_"Tim, how can we make any progress here if you don't admit what you did wrong?"_

_"I know what I did was wrong!"_

_"What did you do, then, Tim?"_

_"I…I concealed evidence. I lied to my friends. I got people killed."_

_"And what was the result of all that?"_

_"I nearly died__. I still have nightmares about that, Dr. Leavitt."_

_"Of course you do."_

Gibbs sped past a section. When he resumed, Tim was crying.

_"But I never meant…"_

_"People never do mean to get caught, Tim."_

_"No, that's not it! I didn't want to…"_

_"Do you know how much trouble you caused your team by what you did?"_

_"Yes. They really went to bat for me."_

_"And what did you do to deserve that?"_

_"Nothing."_

_"You told me before that you regretted not trusting them. What good does that regret do__ them__?"_

_"Nothing."_

_"Can it bring back the people you…the people who died?"_

_"No. Nothing can bring them back."_ Tim's voice sounded dull.

_"You said that you tried to make up for it by submitting to whatever NCIS decided."_

_"Yes, I didn't want to make it more difficult for them."_

_"And yet, they made it so easy for you."_

Even while Gibbs seethed inwardly, he was amazed at how skillfully Dr. Leavitt was manipulating Tim. He never raised his voice. He just said everything as if it were a statement of fact, and as if everything Tim said was questionable. Gibbs stopped the session and looked at the next tape. He hesitated and then put it in and sped to a random spot in the middle. Tim sounded nearly hysterical.

_"I don't want to remember this! Please, don't!"_

_"Tim, don't you see? You need to remember. You need to remember your punishment. How else can you really pay the price you deserve?"_

_"No…no…please…"_

_"You remember the water, don't you? You told me that you remember the water __making you drown."_

_"…no…"_

_"Remember, Tim, you deserve this."_

_"…please…don't make me go through it again…I don't want to drown anymore."_

_"No one wants to drown, Tim. Those people whom you killed, they…"_

_"I didn't kill anyone!"_

_"You failed to take the course of action that might have saved their lives, even though you knew that you should."_

_"Yes…but I didn't…I never…"_

_"…those people didn't want to die, did they?"_

_"No."_

_"You could have stopped it."_

_"Yes…I think so."_

_"You think so."_

_"Yes, I could have!"_

_"So, if they can't come back to life, why should you forget drowning? Why shouldn't you remember it?"_

_"It's…it's hard. It scares me."_

_"That's life, Tim. You'll always be scared."_

Gibbs couldn't stomach anymore and turned it off with a fierce jab. Maybe he _should_ have sent Ziva back with Tony.

"Gibbs? I found her. Anything else you like me to do?" Ziva asked, sounding incredibly annoyed at being a gofer.

"Yes, thank you, Officer David. I would like you to go and get McGee's family and send them here. Send Ducky as well."

Ziva rolled her eyes and left.

"You've been hiding, Abby."

Abby shuffled her feet and didn't respond.

"Why?"

"He hates me, Gibbs," she whispered, not crying this time. She had moved beyond tears.

"No, he doesn't, Abby."

"You didn't see his eyes. He hated me."

"That wasn't Tim talking yesterday. That was his…pain."

Abby sniffled just a little. "Tim's never looked at me like that before. Gibbs, I don't know what to say to him. I don't know what to do. It's…he's…"

"Abby, I'm going to tell you this now, and then you can hear the whole story when the McGees get here. McGee's shrink was manipulating him."

"What?"

"Dr. Leavitt was not helping McGee. He was hurting him…the entire time McGee was seeing him. I'll let Ducky give all the details, but I want you to _try_ and remain calm. No murder threats, okay?"

Abby looked as though she were still trying to absorb it all, but she nodded. Then, the door creaked open and Ducky and the McGees came inside. With Sam's wheelchair, the space was a little crowded, but Gibbs figured it was better to be private for what they were about to hear.

"Ducky, you want to tell them?"

"I wish no one had to be told _anything_, but yes, I will do the honors."

"What's going on?" Naomi asked. "What's so important?"

"You need to know something we just found out about the therapy Timothy had before I began my tenure," Ducky said.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim lay in his room, alone. His thoughts were swirling around at a furious rate, settling on nothing, flying to a thousand different locations at once. He felt awful. They had been talking about how they could stay around so that he wouldn't be alone, uprooting their entire lives just because he was too weak to handle this on his own. Part of him was incredibly grateful because he _was_ afraid of being alone, but mostly, he just felt guilty about taking up so much time.

"McGee?"

The voice startled him out of his reverie. He blinked and saw Ziva standing in the doorway.

"Can we talk?"

"Of course. Come in."

Ziva came inside, feeling a little uneasy, but determined to try and help Tim now that she knew what had been done to him.


	36. Chapter 36

**Chapter 36**

Tony drove a little faster than he should. He couldn't even stand listening to the radio. He was infuriated about what had been done to Tim. It was only with great control that he managed to focus on the road at all. He wanted to vent some of his fury…on Leavitt, on Smith, on anyone who had so much as _looked_ at Tim wrong…although on second thought, that last would have to include himself.

"Okay, calm down. This won't help matters. Focus…on the road…on getting back to NCIS, on…" Tony took a deep breath. "…figuring out _why_ this happened. How is obvious…why is not. I'll get him…legally." Tony kept up the monologue, knowing that if he allowed himself to get worked up again, he'd be more likely to miss something…like a red light. All the while, though, despite having seen the transcript only briefly, Tony had the words that he had read running through his mind. Why would any person in his right mind do that kind of thing?

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"How are you feeling, McGee?" Ziva asked.

Tim shrugged. "Okay, I suppose. I mean, I…I've been wreaking havoc on my respiratory system lately…and pretty much everything else."

"No, I mean, in here," Ziva clarified, touching his head gently.

Tim flinched away as if she had hurt him. Ziva didn't back down, but she didn't push either. She just sat and looked at him, feeling her anger toward Leavitt bubble up and then disappear underneath a wave of pity for Tim. He was paying such a heavy price for a single mistake, a serious mistake, but a mistake nonetheless.

"Not…not so good," Tim finally said and he stared at the wall.

"Would you like to tell me about it?"

"No," Tim said softly. "I hate having to put it into words. It's hard enough just thinking about it…all the time." He swallowed and then spoke again, "And please, please don't tell me not to think about it. If I could stop, don't you think I would?"

"I would not tell you such a thing, McGee."

"I'm sorry," Tim said. "Talking doesn't help anyway."

"I have found that talking usually _does_ help."

"When is it that _you've_ talked about _your_ problems?" Tim asked, a belligerent note coming into his voice. This time, however, Ziva recognized what he was doing, whether he realized or not, and she did not take offense.

"I did not say I was _good_ at it, McGee, just that it helps. You are not so good at it yourself, you know."

"Like I said, it doesn't seem to do any good."

"Maybe you just need a sympathetic audience."

Tim grimaced. "I don't really perform well for a crowd, Ziva."

Ziva smiled and took his hand. "Then, why don't you skip the performance and just talk to a friend?" she asked kindly.

"Don't be nice to me, Ziva," Tim said, with unexpected sharpness.

"Why not?"

"Because…I…"

"Do not _deserve_ it?" Ziva finished.

Tim didn't reply, but his eyes showed how he felt.

"McGee, we are all your friends. We would not be here if we did not care. It has nothing to do with being deserving or undeserving…although you are wrong if you consider yourself undeserving."

"Doesn't it?" Tim asked, dropping his eyes to Ziva's hand which was still holding his.

"Do you consider Tony and myself your friends?"

Tim nodded wordlessly.

"Why?"

Startled, Tim looked up and she saw the darkness in his eyes. "What do you mean, _why_?"

"We tease you without mercy. We have berated and degraded you. Tony plays practical jokes on you almost constantly. Why would you consider us your friends with such behavior as that?"

"That's not all. That's only a part of what you do," Tim protested. "Tony always has my back when it counts. You…You're nice to me even when you don't have to be."

"But we do not _always_ act like good friends, do we?"

"No, but…"

"…but we are not perfect, correct?"

"Nobody is perfect," Tim said.

"Then, why are you the exception?"

"I'm not perfect, either, Ziva," Tim said, dropping his eyes again.

"Exactly. You do not have to be."

Tim didn't reply.

"Was I right, McGee?"

"About what?"

"When I said you were afraid…was I right?"

"In a way."

"In what way?" Ziva pressed.

Tim looked around at the hospital room, his eyes sweeping from floor to ceiling, everywhere but directly at Ziva. "Have you ever heard of Tad Williams?"

"Should I have?"

A small smile flashed across Tim's face so quickly Ziva almost missed it. "Not necessarily…unless you read a lot of science fiction."

"No."

"I didn't think so." Inexplicably, Tim's eyes filled with tears. "He wrote that 'we tell lies when we are afraid... afraid of what we don't know, afraid of what others will think, afraid of what will be found out about us. But every time we tell a lie, the thing that we fear grows stronger.' I've told so many lies, Ziva. That first time…I felt as though I was under a microscope, as if you all could see _exactly_ what I had done. But you didn't. You didn't see any of it…and I couldn't tell you…I couldn't tell the truth, even though I knew I had to." Tim pulled his hand away and began rubbing his palms together tensely. All the uncertainty left his voice as he continued speaking. Instead, it became laced with self-loathing. "And people _died_! My embarrassment, my _reputation_ was more important than saving lives."

"McGee…" Ziva began, but Tim was on a roll now and he talked right over her.

"No!" Tim said loudly. "Don't _tell_ me that you wouldn't have figured it out before. We don't know that! We _can't_! It's impossible to say whether or not you would have been able to track in on Smith if I had told you when things could have been done to stop him. How many days was it before we figured out that Chip was framing Tony? How many days before we tracked in on Sharif poisoning Gibbs? It sure wasn't a month! _Twenty-eight days_, Ziva! That's how long. Petty Officer Johnson told us exactly how much time we had…and we took it all because…because I wasn't man enough to do my job, because I wasn't honest enough to tell you that something was wrong, because I didn't trust you. I just kept everything to myself, hoping that it would go away even when I knew it couldn't and—"

Ziva suddenly put her hand very firmly over Tim's mouth. "Stop it, Tim. You are not the one really speaking those words."

Tim stopped talking, but he looked at Ziva, hatred swirling in his eyes. Ziva, however, understood at whom the hatred was directed, and it was not at her. She hesitated, not sure if she should ask but wanting to know.

"How many times did Dr. Leavitt have to say that to you before you believed him?"

Tim's eyes widened as he stared at her. Then, suddenly, he pulled her hand away from his mouth and began to lean over the opposite side of the bed. His stomach was empty, but that didn't stop the reflex. Ziva grabbed him before he fell to the floor and held him as he continued to dry heave. In her mind, she was thinking, _I am going to kill him. Leavitt deserves to die…very, very slowly. Perhaps he should drown…_

Tim's breaths came in short noisy gasps as he calmed down enough to stop. He wasn't crying.

"I…don't…want to…be…like this…anymore," he panted.

"If that is the case, then we will help you," Ziva promised.

Tim sagged limply in Ziva's grasp, shaking with exhaustion, spent both body and spirit.

"You do not have to blame yourself anymore, Tim…and you do not have to drown anymore," Ziva whispered.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was silence in the small office for about ten seconds following Ducky's narrative. Naomi was the one to break it. Gone was any trace of composure or reserve. She looked like a raging she-bear.

"You're telling me that this…this doctor was _intentionally_ torturing my son…for _what reason_?"

"We don't know yet," Gibbs said. "I sent Tony back to DC and he's going to start figuring it out."

Naomi did not shout, but her voice was strangled as if it was taking every ounce of self-control for her to keep the conversation at a tolerable volume. "You are certain this was done on purpose?"

"Yes," Ducky said shortly. "There is no doubt in my mind that is the case."

Naomi took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She let it out slowly and then said, "I need a minute. If you will excuse me." And she turned around and left the office.

All eyes turned toward Sam. He smiled shakily. "When she says she needs a minute, she means it. I'll go out in a minute. She doesn't get this angry very often, but when she does, she doesn't want to be disturbed."

"Yeah, the last time was when those doctors…" Sarah began.

Sam interrupted her. "That's not important, Sarah. What happens now, Ducky?"

"Now, we try to undo what Dr. Leavitt did. It will take time, and I'll be honest, I do not know if we can. Dr. Leavitt had nearly exclusive access to him during the five weeks following his injury. It will be a hard road."

"But you'll try, right?" Sam asked, a strange note of pleading in his voice.

"Of course. We will not give up on Timothy, even if he has, at the moment, given up on himself."

Sam nodded in relief and then looked at his watch. "I think it's safe for me to go after her, now. Thank you, Ducky." Sam wheeled himself out, leaving Sarah alone with Abby, Gibbs and Ducky. She looked at them awkwardly. Gibbs smiled and looked at Ducky significantly and then left the office, pulling out his phone as he did so.

"Mom never gets this angry," Sarah said finally, mostly to fill the silence. "I can only remember a few times. It's usually when she's scared of something."

"Meaning what, Sarah?" Ducky asked.

"Well…it's like the time Tim and I snuck out of the house at three in the morning to make snow angels on the neighbor's lawns. We'd stolen caution tape and strung it around each of the snow angels." Sarah smiled at the memory. "I was only about six. It was the same year that Tim got accelerated in school and I think he just wanted to pretend that he was still a kid for awhile. Mom found our beds empty and freaked out. Tim got grounded for a month for that."

"Tim got grounded?" Abby asked, an evil smile on her face.

"Yeah, just the once," Sarah answered. "The last time Mom was this angry was when…" Sarah hesitated and looked toward the door. "Dad has problems with his circulation. That's pretty typical of paraplegics, of course. Once, he had an embolism and none of the doctors noticed. It nearly killed him, and Mom…well, after she knew that Dad was going to be okay, she walked out into the hallway and started screaming at the various doctors and nurses for their incompetence, telling them that if she had ever had any desire to be a lawyer it would be right then so that she could sue them all for malpractice."

"Really," Ducky said, quite impressed.

Sarah smiled and looked at the door again. "Yeah. People usually think Mom is the nice one because she's so quiet most of the time…and Dad…well, now that he's in a wheelchair, it tends to put people off at first, even though he's a lot more laid back than Mom is."

"Now? How long has he been paralyzed?"

"Did Tim never tell you?"

"No, he never mentioned it, not to me anyway," Ducky said. He looked at Abby who shook her head.

"Oh," Sarah said in surprise. "I hope this isn't supposed to be another one of those secrets. It's been about twelve years now. I remember Dad was really depressed in the beginning, well we all were, but Dad most of all. He used to run every day and he always had so much energy." She hesitated and then looked at Ducky. "I'm not sure if I should tell you all this…I don't know what's supposed to be kept private."

"Well, if you think it might be wrong, then you may err on the side of caution," Ducky said, although he was very interested in this new glimpse into Tim's life.

"Well…" Sarah hesitated again and then let it out in a rush. "Tim actually walked in on Dad when he was writing a suicide note. He had everything ready even. Tim wasn't supposed to be there. Mom had gone to work, about an hour before school was over, and Tim and I were supposed to be in school. Dad still wasn't well enough to go back to work himself. This was at the end of Tim's senior year. He was getting ready to go to MIT, but he was worried about leaving us. I don't know why Tim went home. He's never said, but he did and I guess he and Dad just stared at each other. Neither one of them moved because they were both still there when I got home. I never really found out what happened. Mom probably knows because Dad went to the hospital for a few days, but Tim never said anything to me or to Mom. He wouldn't talk to Dad for a while after that…not until it was nearly graduation. I'm not sure if it was because he was mad or because he was scared…like Mom."

"Why graduation?"

Now that she had started, Sarah didn't seem to be able to stop. She seemed so relieved to be talking about something other than Tim's suicide or rather _to_ someone other than her suicidal brother that she just kept talking.

"Well, we went and visited Dad in the hospital and he was still really depressed. I didn't really get it at the time; I was only eight. Tim came with us, but he still wouldn't talk to Dad. Mom kept trying to get them to talk to each other, but it didn't work. Finally, we were about to leave and Tim started out the door. Then, he stopped and turned back. I still remember it. Tim was staring at Dad as if Dad had betrayed him personally."

_"Dad?" Tim said quietly. Naomi and Sarah stopped in surprise. Tim's voice even drew Sam out of his brooding._

_"What, Tim?"_

_Tim looked at Sam with a challenge in his eyes. He looked much older than his sixteen years. "Graduation is in two weeks. I'm valedictorian. I'm giving a speech. I need to know something."_

_"What's that?"_

_Tim was silent for a long time and everyone thought he was going to lapse back into the silence that had so defined him for the last few __days_

_"I need to know if, when I give my speech, I'm going to be able say that everything I've done I owe to my father sitting on the front row…or if I'm going to have to say that I owe it all to my dad…" Here Tim stopped, his eyes filling with tears. He didn't look away from Sam. "…whom I wish was still here. Which is it going to be, Dad?"_

_Sam's eyes also filled with tears. Tim never looked away. This was not a rhetorical question. He wanted an answer and he wanted it right then._

_Sam looked at his son…and at his wife and daughter standing frozen behind him. Something loosened in his mind, something clicked._

_"You'll never have to say that you wish I was there. I wouldn't miss your graduation."_

_Naomi sighed, but Tim wasn't done. "__You almost did."_

_"I know."_

_Tim started speaking more quickly, trying to stave off the tears hovering in his eyes. __"__What about when I finish college? What about my first job? What about when I get married? What about when Sarah graduates, gets married? Will you be there then?__ I need to know.__"_

_Sam looked at Tim for a long moment. Then, he answered, __"God willing, I will be, Tim."_

_Tim's expression suddenly changed. Now, it was pleading and he looked much younger than he was. __"Promise?"_

_"You have my word."_

"Now, it's like Dad's returning the favor or something," Sarah finished. She looked down and then back at Ducky. "How long will Tim be like this, Dr. Mallard?"

"I wish I could just tell you, Sarah. It doesn't work like that."

She sighed. "I know. I just wish it would."

Abby, still being uncharacteristically quiet, moved over by Sarah and gave her a hug.

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"I'm not ready to calm down yet, Sam," Naomi spat out as she paced back and forth in the hallway.

"Okay, I can wait." Sam slowed down and put the brakes on. Then, he watched as his wife walked agitatedly from one side of the hall to the other.

"How can you be so _calm_? We were just told that Tim…that a man betrayed everything that he was taught, the oaths he took, in order to…_torture_ our son! How can you just sit there so calmly and take it?"

"Well, I can't exactly _stand _calmly, now can I?" Sam said.

"Sam! This is _not_ the time for jokes!"

"Naomi, if I don't…then, we'll have three people falling apart in the family and I don't think Sarah can manage us all at once."

"I'm _not _falling apart! I'm…incensed! I want to tear that man limb from limb!"

Sam took the brakes off and wheeled forward. As Naomi paced in front of him, he put his brakes on again and grabbed her arm. When she turned to try and get him to let go, he grabbed her other arm. "Naomi, I _am_ furious. I don't think I've ever felt so much hatred for another person as I do right now, but none of that will help Tim. Now, at least, we know that something happened. We can help him. It wasn't just him. He didn't think of this on his own. Yes, he ultimately made the decision, but he was manipulated into a state of mind that allowed for it. Maybe it _doesn't_ help, but it makes _me_ feel better."

"Sam…I just don't know if I deal with this twice," Naomi said, finally relaxing enough to stop fighting his grip.

"I'm sorry you've had to deal with it at all," Sam said and he reached out to stroke her cheek, gently wiping away a tear or two that had managed to fall.

Naomi bent over and hugged Sam tightly. "I just want our family to be happy."

"We'll get there. I promise," Sam said, hoping that he wasn't lying.

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"Please, Jethro, tell me this is your idea of a sick joke," Jenny said, her voice full of revulsion.

"I wish I could. I've read the transcripts and listened to some of the tapes myself. There's no way this was an accident…if it was, Dr. Leavitt should be sued for malpractice."

"What are you going to do, then?"

"Tony should be getting there soon. He's going to find out why the good doctor decided to torture McGee and then he's going to educate him on the fallacy of such an action."

"Above board, please."

"It would be easier to just kill him. Everyone wants to at the moment, even his family."

"Jethro…"

"Above board, of course. He needs us here, though, Jen."

"Of course. I was going to ask for Abby back, but…we can do without her for a couple of days. Do what you need to. McGee shouldn't be alone at a time like this. I hope you can help him."

"Thanks, Jen."

"I'll help Tony when he gets here. I don't like my agents being attacked…especially in such a situation."

In spite of the anger still coursing through him, Gibbs smiled. "If you change your mind…"

"You'll be the first to know," Jenny said, her voice revealing a thin thread of humor.

"Good." Gibbs hung up and then walked toward Tim's room.

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"Cynthia, could you come into my office for a moment?" Jenny asked.

"I'll be right in, Director."

Cynthia opened the door, pen and paper in hand, ready to take notes on whatever needed doing. Jenny smiled appreciatively. Sometimes, she thought that Cynthia probably knew more about NCIS than she did…which was one of the things that made her such a good assistant.

"What is it?" she asked as she sat down.

"I need you to pull the records we have on file of every agent who has gone to Dr. Brian Leavitt…and I mean, _every_ agent. I want to know how many, how long, when, what problems there were, _everything_ we have."

Cynthia stopped in the middle of writing down the request. She looked up. "What happened now, Director? You already had me pull him from the list of recommended psychiatrists and I sent in your letter to the APA. Is there something more?"

"Yes. While you're at it, I want a warrant to see all of Leavitt's files. If the judge balks, forward him to me. I have some information he may be interested in hearing."

Cynthia wrote down the next request.

"Also, make sure that the warrant, when it comes through, gets communicated to Agent DiNozzo. He should be here soon and I'll be assisting him."

"Yes, ma'am. Will that be all?"

"Yes, for now."

Cynthia nodded and stood to leave. When she got to the door, however, she stopped and looked back.

"Director?"

"Yes, Cynthia?"

"What happened?"

Jenny leaned back in her chair. "Did you look at the transcriptions of McGee's sessions when they finally came through?"

"No. I figured Agent McGee had suffered enough scrutiny. He didn't need my prying eyes."

"I didn't look at them either. I wish I had."

"Why?"

"It looks as though Dr. Leavitt was not actually trying to help Agent McGee. He was trying to break him down. For what reason, I don't know, but we are going to find out."

For an instant, the revulsion everyone else felt on hearing such news showed on Cynthia's face. Then, she schooled her expression and was cool and collected again. "I'll get right on it, Director. The data we already have will be on your desk within the hour. There shouldn't be any problems," she said, a steely note in her voice.

"Thank you, Cynthia."

The door didn't slam after Cynthia's departure, but it nearly did. Jenny stood up and looked out her window. No, there wouldn't be any problems. Cynthia had a driven look in her eye that said she wouldn't take no for an answer. It was amazing how quickly everyone was rallying behind Tim. She wondered if he had any idea how much everyone cared.


	37. Chapter 37

**Chapter 37**

"Je-Director!" Tony blurted out when he stepped off the elevator. "What are you doing at my desk?"

"I have some information for you, Tony. I'm going to be working on this case with you and I want it settled…quickly."

"You get no argument from me. It _should_ have been settled a long time ago."

"You're right. I can't believe that we, that _I_ let this go on for so long unchecked."

Tony didn't respond. He looked at the two stacks of files sitting on his desk and the single file open in front of Jenny.

"What's all this?"

"Dr. Leavitt's previous interactions with NCIS. He was…until recently…the most highly recommended psychiatrist on our list. I chose him because I was told he would do the best job. He has worked with various agents both here and with the CIA and FBI for a number of years, all without any complaints. I've been going through all the information we have, trying to find _something_ that will explain his actions."

Tony grabbed Ziva's chair and rolled it over to his desk. "You find anything yet?"

"No! That's what's so frustrating!" Jenny said, closing the file with unneeded vigor. "There have been glowing recommendations from all his clients…until now. I would not have believed that he could be so suddenly changed."

"Do we know for certain that Tim was _actually_ seeing Dr. Leavitt? Maybe an impersonator?"

Jenny laughed. "No, it's pretty certain, Tony. Gibbs threatened the man. We got all the session records from his secretary…"

"Why would he do that?" Tony interrupted.

"What?"

"I only looked at the transcript for a second, but…it's obvious that this isn't just therapy gone wrong. The intent is there! Why would Leavitt let us see what he did? He must have known how we'd react…to a certain extent," he finished, grinning. "It makes no sense."

Jenny looked at Tony in surprise. "You're right. I never thought of that. Cynthia is working on getting us a warrant for Leavitt's files. When she comes through…and she will, we can ask her about that." She sighed and took another file from the stack. "In the meantime…"

Tony looked unenthusiastically at the stack of files and took one himself. "I wish I'd stayed in Luray."

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Cynthia had the judge's number, but she wanted ammunition _before_ it was needed. Yes, Jenny could use her connections to get access, but that would take extra time. A determined smile flashed across her face and she picked up her phone.

"Dr. Mallard, speaking."

"Dr. Mallard?"

"Cynthia, my dear! How lovely to hear your voice."

"How are you doing, Doctor?"

"Well enough, and yourself?"

"I was hoping for some help."

"With what?"

"We need a warrant for Leavitt's files," Cynthia explained and allowed her anger to come out in her voice. "I'd like to get something I could use to show the judge that we have probable cause."

"Well, I'd recommend you don't sound so angry when you speak to the judge. He will assume that your judgment is clouded."

"I can do that easily, Dr. Mallard. I'm good at my job."

"I never doubted it."

"So, can you help?"

"What were you wanting?"

"I was hoping for a selection from McGee's therapy sessions that shows deliberate manipulation."

"Do you have recording capability?"

"Of course."

"Then, I would recommend that you play a small snippet of the recording. Words are all well and good, but hearing the tenor of the interaction will be much more effective."

"Do you have a clip in mind?"

"I do. I was listening to it just before you called. It turns _my_ stomach."

"All right. Let me get everything set up." Cynthia turned on the recorder. "Okay, Dr. Mallard. Go ahead."

Cynthia listened to the words and felt ill herself…and angry beyond measure. The clip only lasted about thirty seconds and then stopped. She took a deep breath and turned off the recorder before resuming her conversation.

"That's disgusting, Dr. Mallard."

"Yes. I quite agree," Ducky said softly. "Is that all you needed?"

"Yes, that's more than enough. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, I need to get back to repairing the damage."

"Good luck, Dr. Mallard."

"Thank you, Cynthia. By the way, I would appreciate it if you didn't spread that around amongst the others. They haven't heard nor have they read this session. It gets worse from there."

"I won't."

Ducky hung up and Cynthia sat quietly for a few minutes, making sure she was fully in control of her emotions. Then, she straightened in her seat and dialed Judge Ferrin's number.

"Judge Ferrin?"

"Speaking," came a tired voice. That was a bad sign, but Cynthia pressed on.

"This is Cynthia Sumner, from NCIS."

"What can I do for you, Ms. Sumner?"

"I need a warrant for the files of Dr. Brian Leavitt, a psychiatrist."

"For what reason?" He sounded more resigned than anything else.

"We suspect him of intentionally torturing NCIS Special Agent Timothy McGee under the guise of giving him therapy and we need access to his files to find out why and whether or not he is simply negligent or if there was criminal intent."

"Proof?"

"I have a part of one of his sessions. Would you like to hear it?"

"How did you get this record?"

"We had found Agent McGee's therapy to be less than adequate two weeks ago and we switched him to another therapist. That therapist requested the transcripts of the sessions. It was difficult, but we did get them three days ago. In that time, Agent McGee attempted suicide. We feel it was a direct result of Dr. Leavitt's actions and are building a case against him."

"Play me the record."

Cynthia pushed play and winced as Tim's incoherent sobbing filled the air.

_"No! I don't want to drown anymore! Please, Dr. Leavitt! Stop!"_

_"Tim, you know how much easier it would have been for everyone had you just died?"_

Cynthia heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line, but she let the recording continue.

_"No! They saved me! They wouldn't have done that unless…"_

_"They're better people than you are, Tim. They wouldn't just let someone die right in front of them. They wouldn'__t have sat back and done__ nothing. Deep down, you know how they feel."_

Tim again began to sob and another sound filled the air, a sound Cynthia had missed before: the sound of running water.

"Judge Ferrin?" Cynthia said into the heavy silence.

There was a long drawn out sigh. "Are you certain of the identities of both speakers?"

"Beyond the direct forms of address, I do recognize Agent McGee's voice, and I have verification that this record came from Dr. Leavitt's sessions from his secretary."

"You have your warrant. I'll get it sent over within the hour."

"Thank you, Judge Ferrin."

As he hung up the phone, Cynthia heard him mutter, "I'm getting too old for this."

Free from the necessity of maintaining her calm demeanor, Cynthia allowed herself to feel the shock and revulsion that the short part of Tim's "therapy" had instilled. That it _was_ a criminal act, she had no doubt. They would find the information needed and they would find out exactly _why_ Dr. Leavitt had done this to Tim. It really didn't make any sense.

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"Tim?" Naomi asked as she stepped into the room. Tim was still lying limply in Ziva's grip, not crying, sitting silently…with no inclination to move at all.

He looked up when he heard her voice and straightened. Ziva let him go as soon as she felt him stiffen.

"Tim, Ducky wants to talk to you and then your doctor needs to give you a once over. She said that if there are no complications, you can leave the hospital."

"What does Ducky want to talk to me about?" Tim asked, nervously.

Naomi hesitated and felt the wrath that only a mother can feel well up inside her. She clamped down on that for the moment, however. Sam was right that it wouldn't do Tim any good to see her lose her temper.

"Dr. Leavitt." Tim's eyes filled with fear, but he just nodded. Naomi couldn't stand it anymore and walked over to her son. She hesitated, remembering his last reaction to her, but he nodded again and she hugged him tightly. "It's going to be okay, Tim. It is. You can beat it."

"I'm so tired of fighting, Mom," Tim whispered, so softly that only she heard. He felt her arms tightened around him and he wound his own arms around her waist. "How did Dad do it?"

"He had you, Tim. He had you to tell him to try, and he had all of us as evidence of how much was to fight for. You made him look past what he was feeling in that moment. That's what you have to do now. Look beyond how bad you feel right now and think about how you'll feel in the future."

The door opened silently and Ducky arrived. Naomi looked back, but he didn't speak. He just gestured for her to continue what she was doing.

"Mom…" Tim said in a voice just above a whisper, sounding more like a child than like the special agent he was.

"What, Tim?"

"…he…he said…he did such awful things…"

"Who?"

"Dr. Leavitt."

"I know, dear. I know."

Tim couldn't say anymore. He just let himself be comforted by his mother. If only his mind could be as quiet as the room in which he lay. At the forefront were all the tortured thoughts that had twisted his mind into tangled knots. At the back…quietly, patiently waiting for notice was the part of him that had not changed, that realized Ziva was still in the room, that realized he would be completely embarrassed by his actions in a few days. No part of him was silent, no part was quiescent. Even when he slept, the thoughts toiled on, although the normal part of him put up more of a fight in his subconscious mind than it did while he was awake. …it still lost, but at least it fought.

"Timothy?"

Tim pulled away from Naomi and looked at Ducky.

"I'd like to talk with you, if that's all right."

Tim nodded.

"It's your choice. Do you wish your mother and Ziva to remain?"

Tim looked at Naomi. "Mom?"

Naomi smiled. "I'll just go visit the cafeteria." She refrained from kissing his head, but the thought was there.

Ziva stood and smiled at Tim before walking out, followed closely by Naomi.

Tim fought the impulse to curl into a little ball as Ducky stared at him in silence. He wasn't sure how they all knew about Dr. Leavitt, but he didn't want to talk about it. Every time he had talked…from the first day, Dr. Leavitt had used it against him, had stored up what he had said and then brought it out later. He couldn't bear doing that again.

"Timothy, I've read the transcripts of your sessions with Dr. Leavitt."

Tim winced.

"You did not mention that once."

Tim shook his head.

"Why not?"

Tim shrugged mutely.

"Timothy, I am not a mind-reader."

Unconsciously, Tim drew his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his legs. He whispered something so softly that Ducky couldn't hear him.

"I didn't understand that. Louder please, Timothy."

"It was fine at first."

"I know. I saw that. He was following the regular procedure for addressing psychological and physical trauma."

"I told him about my nightmares, about what I'd done, how I felt."

"Yes."

"Then…he twisted it. He took everything I'd said and made it…worse. He took it and then he gave it back to me."

"Why didn't you say any of this before?"

Tim buried his face in his arms. "I thought it would just go away…but it couldn't, because it was true. It was all true."

Ducky smiled ruefully. Tim understood what had been done…almost. He understood that Dr. Leavitt had hurt him, but he still didn't understand that Dr. Leavitt was _wrong_.

"It is _not_ true, Timothy. That's what you need to drum into your thick skull. It isn't true. It never was."

"Perhaps not for certain, Ducky…but the possibility exists…and we'll never know. We can't turn back time." Tim's voice was muffled and Ducky strongly suspected that Tim was crying again. "I've wished it so many times."

"I'm sure you have. Timothy, I want to you a question that you won't want to answer."

Tim lifted his head, wiping away tears. "About what?"

"About your sessions with Dr. Leavitt."

Tim seemed to huddle in on himself, but he nodded.

"I've listened to several of the sessions on tape. In a few of them, I can hear the sound of running water." Tim tensed and huddled even more. "How often did that happen?"

Tim shook his head.

"Please, Timothy. I know this is difficult. I know you'd rather not remember, but I can't help you if I don't understand."

His voice shaky, his body tense as a bowstring, Tim began to talk about his therapy. It was more than an answer to Ducky's question. It was letting out some of what had happened, speaking of a shameful experience for the first time. "Sometimes…sometimes it was just when I disagreed with him, when I tried to…explain. He would…he had a…a recording…of running water…rivers, streams…water pouring from a tap. Sometimes, he would…put on headphones and …make me listen to it during the entire session…"

"Did you agree to that?" Ducky asked softly.

"…he made me…he…" More tears. "…he blindfolded me and made me listen…he…tied me to the chair so that I couldn't move. He told me that…he said it would never go away, that…that it was…my punishment for…for what I'd done…he said that…that I was as bad as Smith was. He said that…that everyone would be better off if I were dead."

"Did…did he ever actually have water there?"

Tim shook his head. "He said the water was in my head…that I could never get away from it."

_Thank heavens for small favors,_ Ducky thought grimly. The wonder was that Tim had managed to hold everything together for as long as he had. Ducky supposed that the added stress of going back to work had put too great a strain on his already fragile mind which caused it to crack all at once, rather than bit by bit. "I am so sorry, Timothy. None of this should have happened, but you have to believe me: none of this is your fault."

"Why would he have said it if it wasn't?"

"We're trying to find that out now, and we will. This is _not_ your fault. I will repeat that as many times as I have to to get it through your head, Timothy. The people who are to blame for this mess are Smith and Leavitt. Not you, not me, not Jethro, not any of us. Let us lay blame where it belongs." He could see that Tim didn't believe him, not really. _Well, not even Rome was built in a day. It will take time._

A soft knock on the door brought the guarded look onto Tim's face again…which did not disappear when Tim's doctor came into the room.

"Hello, Mr. McGee. I just need to give you one last examination. If it turns out well, you are free to leave."

Tim looked from Ducky to the doctor and then down at his knees. Slowly, ever so slowly, he straightened them. Not looking up, he said, "Thank you."

She was very hesitant as she approached the bed, but Ducky gestured with his head that she should proceed. She nodded and began.

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Tony threw down yet another file. "I don't think we're going to find anything in this junk," he said in frustration. "We know that Leavitt is sneaky and…" Tony paused and looked sideways at Jenny. "…but all this is showing us is that before McGee, he was some sort of psychiatry god. Now…he's like…Dr. Lecter or something."

Jenny laughed in spite of herself. "I hardly think he's a cannibal, Tony."

"Yes, but…who knows…maybe he has a secret desire to eat McGee's liver."

Jenny grinned. "I highly doubt it."

Tony looked over at Tim's empty desk. Somehow, it seemed as though it had been empty for a lot longer than three days. "You're probably right, but…he _has_ been taunting him about the screaming of the lambs, using it as leverage, when he was supposed to be helping him let it go."

"I know, Tony. I have Lovitz's team on surveillance right now. I don't want him slipping away if he gets tipped off that we know."

"How can he not? Is he that secure that he doesn't think we'll figure it out when we have exactly what happened?"

"I don't know _what_ he's thinking. First, he won't share his sessions because of doctor-client privilege and he avoids us at all costs, even to the point of hanging up on me; then, suddenly we get everything all at once. I don't understand it myself. Once we get the warrant, we can ask him."

"You've got it," Cynthia said as she came down the stairs. "Judge Ferrin is sending it over. It should be here in no time."

"Good," Tony said. "I hate feeling like I'm just waiting for something important to happen." He turned to his computer. "This guy, up until now, has no criminal record, not even a speeding ticket. He's divorced, and his ex got a pretty good settlement from what I can tell, but he's not strapped for cash by any means. No kids. No dog. He has awards coming out the wazoo. He gives to charities." Tony looked back at Tim's desk again. "How in the world does this," he gestured at the empty space, "square with this image?"

"Does he have any connection to Robert or Joan Smith?" Cynthia asked. "Or maybe with one of the other victims?"

"No way," Tony said, but his eyes were widening at the thought. "No _way_ would this be related. It _couldn't_ be, could it?"

Jenny looked at Cynthia. It was so obvious, but none of them had thought of it. "It seems impossible…but…it makes a kind of horrific sense, doesn't it?"

"I'll start looking," Tony said and turned to the computer to run a new search.

When the warrant came ten minutes later, they were no wiser as to a connection between the two cases, but both Jenny and Tony were confident that they would find the answer in the files in Leavitt's office. Cynthia watched them go, wishing for the first time that she was an agent as well…and that Leavitt would resist. "One of these days…" she said quietly.

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The doctor finished removing the IV and remarked, "Well, Mr. McGee, I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it for myself. Your body _is_ very rundown, and I'd highly recommend that you take a few days to just rest, but despite your recent experiences, your body is healing quite nicely. Even that knock on the head caused no swelling and in a few days, it will be nothing more than a goose egg."

"That's ironic," Tim said softly.

The doctor looked at him more closely. Yes, he was physically better, but mentally just as bad as he was when he came in. She was more than relieved that so many people cared about him. "Maybe it's just meant to be," she suggested.

Tim gave a ghost of a smile, but he didn't look at her.

"Your clothes are in that drawer there. If you feel up to it, you can put them on yourself…or I can get a nurse to help."

"I can do it," Tim whispered.

"Okay. I'll just go tell your family and your friends." She left quietly, but left the door ajar and gave a significant look to the nurse at the station. She nodded and took up a position just outside the door, in case there was a problem.

Slowly, gingerly, Tim swung his legs off the bed. He stood, swayed, sat back down and decided to let the room stop spinning first. Then, he tried again, swayed again, but kept his feet. He walked carefully to the indicated drawer and pulled out his clothes. They had been cleaned, but he wondered if he'd ever feel anything but contaminated in them. He shrugged. They were just clothes. He could do what he wanted with them when he got home, but he couldn't travel in his hospital gown.

After he was dressed again, he walked into the bathroom. As he flicked on the light, he got a glimpse of himself in the mirror. That glimpse became an intense observation of the changes in his own face. Tim reached out and touched the mirror at the level of his eyes. Even to his own jaded view, they looked haunted. The green color darkened to the dingy color of pond scum. His skin was pale and the dark circles under his eyes testified to his poor sleeping habits. He'd never been particularly effusive and perky would never be a word that was used to describe him, but his expression now was nothing short of dour. He sighed and wondered if he could ever get himself back.

Without thinking, he leaned over and turned on the water. He began to wash his hands and then he noticed how loud the water was as it splashed into the sink. It seemed to be magnified as the sound waves bounced around the tiny room. Tim started to shake. He ached to reach out and turn off the water, to get away from the sound, but he was frozen in place. Panic began to stir in his gut, but he still couldn't move. He just stared at the water as it continued to flow, his pulse racing, the terror he always felt surging upward until it finally bubbled out of his throat in a desperate scream for help.

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"There are some things I'd like to say to him, if you don't mind," Gibbs was saying as they walked down the hallway. "I'll take him directly to his apartment, but there's a conversation we've been needing to have and I think I can't put it off any longer."

Sam looked about ready to protest, but he met Gibbs' eyes and nodded. "Okay, Agent Gibbs. We'll meet you back in DC."

"What about Abby?" Ziva asked, looking around for her.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "She'll probably end up going back with you and Ducky."

"Now, wait a moment, that's not enough cars and too many people," Ducky observed.

"No, you're forgetting one."

"Which one is that?"

"McGee's car. I had it moved here this morning."

"Oh."

"So, McGee and I will go back in his car, the McGees in their car and you three in mine."

Suddenly, from down the hall they heard a tortured scream. _"I don't want to drown again!"_

Gibbs didn't even stop to think. Immediately, he took off running, leading the pack, but Naomi was only a step or two behind. They got into the room and saw the light on in the bathroom…and heard the water. There was a nurse looking completely out of her depth standing in the doorway. She looked back at them and relief suffused her face.

"Oh, good. I was just about to call for someone. I don't know what to do!"

Gibbs and Naomi moved her out of the way and stepped inside. Tim was wedged into the corner, hyperventilating and looking in terror at the sink. Naomi turned off the water and knelt in front of Tim, drawing his gaze.

"Mom…help me," he whimpered.

"Come here, Tim," she said, holding out her arms. "You have to move to me this time. I won't fit back there," she added, smiling, although the expression was hard to maintain in the face of such fear.

At first, she didn't think he would be able to move at all, but then, he lurched forward into her arms, babbling. "I just…I wasn't trying…it was…my hands were dirty…and…and…it was so loud…it got into my head…it was all I could hear…"

"Shh, shh, it's okay. It's okay, Tim. We're here. You're not alone. The water's off now. Shh…" She began to rock him back and forth.

Tim was still trying to explain himself, still panicked. "It…I'm sorry…I just can't…I didn't think it would…happen like this…"

"Shh…it's okay. Don't worry about it."

Sarah came in behind Gibbs who stepped back so she could get to Tim. Sam wheeled in as close as he could get, but he wasn't able to get to them. Gibbs could see the frustration on his face at being held back. He stepped out to give them a chance to be together.

"We're here, Tim," Sarah said.

After a few minutes, Tim calmed down enough to stand. The first thing he did was hug Sam tightly.

"I've got you, Tim."

Tim didn't start crying, but he did tighten his grip. "I'll try to be there, Dad," he said.

Ducky, Ziva and Gibbs waited out in the room. It was strange to think of Tim having a family beyond them. It was as though they had adopted him and it was hard to let the McGees comfort Tim and be there for him. After a few minutes, Tim came out on his own two feet, his eyes red, still shaking, but moving on his own.

He smiled a little. "One step at a time?" he said in a weak voice.

Ducky smiled. "Exactly. The next step is going back."

Tim nodded and tried to look ready for it, but they could all see that he was still scared.


	38. Chapter 38

**Chapter 38**

_Without friends no one would choose to live, though he had all other goods. _

_Aristotle_

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As per hospital requirements, Tim was wheeled out of the hospital by Naomi, rolling along next to Sam. As he looked around at all the people with him, Tim suddenly had a thought…a completely random thought pop into his head…the first in who knew how long.

"I think the hospital population is going to decrease by half when we're gone," he said quietly, a very small, but genuine, smile on his face.

Sam grinned as he wheeled himself out and chuckled in response. "The population of the _town_ will probably decrease by half once we're gone."

"It's not _that_ small, Dad," Tim corrected, but his small smile got a little wider.

The smile slowly faded as he looked over at Abby who was walking farthest away from him. She had not come back since he had been so cruel to her when he first saw her with Gibbs. He hadn't had a chance to apologize, and now she wouldn't even _look_ at him. He supposed he deserved it, but he wished she would look at him so he could tell her that he didn't mean what he'd said…both aloud and in his head. He remembered her expression and he knew that she had understood more than just his words. Gibbs went to get Tim's car and Tim opened his mouth to say something to Abby, but she followed Gibbs into the parking lot without looking back. Naomi put the brakes on the chair and went to bring their car around. Ducky caught Tim's disappointed expression, and smiled sympathetically.

"Give her some time, Timothy," he advised.

Tim just looked after her retreating form, his eyes sad. He had not treated her very well over the past couple of months, and that bothered him. However, in moments, he was distracted from his morose thoughts when Ziva leaned over and hugged him quickly. Tim looked at her in surprise as she straightened. She just grinned and said, "See you tomorrow, McGee."

"Yeah," he managed to say, blushing slightly as she followed after Ducky and Abby.

"I thought you said that she was intimidating, Tim," Sam remarked.

"She is, Dad," Tim murmured.

"She doesn't seem to be."

"You've never seen her when she's annoyed…at _you_."

Sam smiled. Even if the banter was a bit forced, it was nice that Tim was at least _trying_ again. Wanting to make it made all the difference…as he knew well.

"She is scary, Dad," Sarah interjected. "But not as scary as Agent Gibbs."

"I don't find either of them frightening in the least. On the contrary, they are refreshingly blunt and direct."

"Dad, you like everyone," Sarah said as Gibbs and Naomi pulled up to the curb.

"Not true. No one can like everyone," Sam disagreed and then rolled forward to get himself into the car.

Sarah walked around in front of Tim's chair as he stood up slowly. Before he was ready, she threw her arms around his waist, nearly knocking him over. "Don't do that again, Tim, please?"

For a moment, Tim stood motionless in surprise and then he put his arms around her. "I won't."

"Promise?" she asked, her voice muffled by his shoulder.

Tim hesitated and Sarah noticed. She tightened her grip.

"Promise?" she asked again.

Tim rested his cheek on her head. "I promise."

"Sarah! Come on, honey! We're going," Naomi called from the car.

Sarah pulled back and looked over her shoulder. "You'd think I was still twelve."

Tim smiled. "Having people who care is a good thing, Sarah."

Sarah looked back and put her hand on Tim's arm for just a moment. "Yeah, it is. See you later."

"Yeah," Tim said and then looked at his car for a moment, knowing who was inside it. As he reached out for the door handle, he looked once more toward where Abby was standing. She didn't look over. He sighed and got in the car.

"You ready, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

Tim nodded without speaking. Gibbs smiled at the non-vocal response but didn't reply. He just put the car in gear and tried not to look too happy about driving Tim's Porsche. He wasn't really into cars, but he appreciated one that drove well…and this was a smooth ride. He could see why Tim had picked it. As he started out of Luray, he hoped that Ducky's recommendation was a good idea. Tim himself was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice when Gibbs left the small motorcade and headed back toward Shenandoah.

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"Boss?"

"Yes, McGee?"

"Where are we going?" Tim asked, feeling suddenly worried by the scenery out the window.

"Dark Hollow Falls."

Gibbs may as well have punched Tim in the gut for the surprise he felt.

"Why?"

"To talk."

"Can't we talk…somewhere else? Somewhere…without…"

"I know you don't like it, McGee. I know you would rather just put it off, but you can't, not forever."

Tim looked out the window again. "Not forever…just…for now."

"Now can become forever all too easily if you let it."

Tim didn't reply.

"You won't be alone this time, McGee."

Tim rested his head against the window. "The only time I wasn't afraid of the water was when I thought I was going to die. Then, it just didn't matter. It's only when I care…when I try…"

Gibbs didn't respond for awhile. He didn't know what to say. He was surprised a few silent minutes later when Tim suddenly laughed.

"What's so funny?"

"Lyndi's going to kill me."

"Why?"

"I was supposed to give her my finished chapter…today is Monday, right?"

"Yeah."

"She said that she didn't care what it took. I had to finish another chapter and give it to her today. The chapter is pretty much done, but…I can't give it to her as it is."

"I'd think going to the hospital would be a good reason for not finishing."

"Maybe…if you're a real human being," Tim mumbled.

"Lyndi Crawshaw doesn't qualify?"

"Not near deadlines she doesn't."

"Would you like a possible suggestion?"

Tim just shrugged.

"You could ask someone else to fix it for you, retype the jumbled pages."

Tim winced. "I'm not sure…I don't want anyone else to read that. _I_ don't want to read it."

"It's out there anyway, McGee."

"What I…almost did, yes, but not…everything in my head. It's…it's not that I think they'd…leave or something, but…I just don't want them to see."

Gibbs let the conversation lapse once more as he concentrated on the windy road leading back into the park, feeling the tension rise the nearer they got to Dark Hollow.

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Tara Dearing was a good secretary. She could tell herself that with a trace of quiet pride. She was nearly always at the office before Dr. Leavitt arrived. In fact, she had been standing outside his locked office so often when he got there that he had given her her own set of keys. She could get into any part of his office at will. She looked at those keys as a sign of her importance…and she looked at her salary as a sign of how cheap Dr. Leavitt was. She _knew_ she deserved more. She had compared with the salaries of a few other secretaries at comparable jobs and found that she was, by far, paid less…and she did a whole lot more. She was in charge of all scheduling, copying, fielding general questions, dealing with recalcitrant patients, and being generally friendly to every single person who walked through the door.

However, getting a raise was more difficult because she knew that Dr. Leavitt would not raise her salary just because she asked him to. Secretaries were a dime a dozen and she counted herself lucky to have such a cushy job. So she had begun to assemble her arsenal of weaponry in the battle for a fair wage. She kept track of every day she had come in early or stayed late, all the sick days she had accumulated and not used. She also logged every minute she spent working on the hard copy transcripts Dr. Leavitt still enjoyed using. She couldn't understand why he was so insistent in this digital age, but she catered to his whims in that respect. Occasionally, he would type up the transcripts himself. When that happened, she took it upon herself to make an extra copy and keep it with her files, just in case something happened to his. In addition, she made scans of them all as well and put them in PDF format. She also made copies of all of his session tapes. He actually still used tapes. She knew that he had fully embraced the age of the iPod, but he wouldn't even use CDs…let alone a purely digital recording. So, she converted all his tapes to CDs and kept those with the files as well. Then, she made a digital record of the location of each file, including drawer number. She did all that without complaint. Now, she figured she was about ready to make her pitch. She just needed the opportune moment.

What Tara really hoped was that Dr. Leavitt would bring up his missing transcripts again. A few days after that frightening man had burst into the office demanding to see Dr. Leavitt, a request had come through for Timothy McGee's files. Tara spared a moment's sympathy for him. He certainly had seemed to be in bad shape. She didn't know exactly what had happened to him, but he had seemed almost to get worse over the course of the month he had been to Dr. Leavitt. When Dr. Leavitt had seen the request, he had seemed very worried, which was strange for him. He was a psychiatrist…he wasn't _supposed_ to get worried. When she had asked him about it, he had said that he had misplaced his file on Timothy McGee. The new therapist had wanted access to Tim's previous progress, which was to be expected. Tara had offered to help him look, but he had been so unnerved by his lapse that he had simply left, saying something about leaving them at home. The next week, she had remembered to ask about the transcripts, and Dr. Leavitt had brushed off her question when his client came in. It was then that she had decided to simply get her copies out and send them over. It wouldn't do for Dr. Leavitt to get in trouble for losing his records. She could ask about a raise later.

…now…it was later. The afternoon was fairly open because of a last-minute cancellation. Tara waited for her chance. He'd be back from lunch any minute now. She threw back her shoulders and sat straight at her desk.

Sure enough, two minutes later, the door opened. "Good afternoon, Dr. Leavitt," Tara said cheerily.

"Afternoon, Tara. What's on tap for the rest of the day?"

"Well, Grimson cancelled…again. So you have another hour before anyone will be here."

Dr. Leavitt sighed. "She keeps cancelling, and she's going to be back in front of a judge…but what can you do? Did you reschedule?"

"Yes. For tomorrow…first thing in the morning."

Dr. Leavitt nodded. "That works. Less chance for her to make excuses. That was a good idea, Tara."

Tara beamed.

Dr. Leavitt began to walk back into his office, but then he stopped and turned around. "By the way, have there been any more calls about Timothy McGee's sessions?"

_Perfect!_ Tara thought to herself. "No, sir. There won't be any more, either."

"Why not?" Dr. Leavitt asked, sounding confused.

"Because, sir, I already gave them the transcripts and tapes."

That statement did not have the effect Tara had expected. Instead of looking relieved, Dr. Leavitt's face went pale.

"You…you _what_?" he asked.

"I sent copies of the transcripts and the tapes over to NCIS."

"When? How?" he asked.

Tara was now a little worried. This shouldn't have been a bad thing. This should have been something deserving of praise…and more importantly, a raise.

"I make copies of _all_ your transcripts, Dr. Leavitt. I have them ready…in case you lose your copies. Don't worry: they're all under lock and key. They won't go anywhere, but I've been making them so that you don't have to worry about them being lost…since you still won't convert to digital on your own."

For a moment, Tara was actually afraid of Dr. Leavitt. She had never been afraid of him before. There was a look in his eyes that, while it seemed overly dramatic to use the word, seemed _murderous_. Her fear must have shown on her face because he calmed down instantly.

"Cancel the rest of my appointments for today, Tara."

"Doctor?"

"I have to…I have something that came up. I just remembered. Please, cancel the rest of my appointments."

Then, before Tara could answer, the door opened and two people came into the office.

"Dr. Leavitt," the woman said. Her voice was pleasant, but her expression was anything but. It was nearly the mirror of the furious man from before. The younger man was looking at Dr. Leavitt in much the same way.

"Can I help you?" Dr. Leavitt asked, sounding nervous.

"We have a warrant here for all your records."

"Why?"

The man spoke for the first time. "I don't think you want us answering that. We might not be able to keep this on a pleasant footing."

The two invaders stared at Dr. Leavitt…and again, Tara was tempted to use the word _murderous_. In an effort to ease the tension and be generally helpful, Tara put up her hand.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

The woman didn't look away, but the younger man did and Tara was relieved that the dangerous expression did not transfer from Dr. Leavitt to her.

"Yes?"

"I…may I see the warrant, please? I'm Dr. Leavitt's secretary. Which records do you need?"

"Tara!" Dr. Leavitt warned.

"They have a warrant, Doctor. We can't ignore it. You know that."

"Am I under arrest?" Dr. Leavitt asked.

"Not yet," the woman said. "Soon. I would recommend that you _not_ try to leave town."

The younger man put on a flirtatious smile. "Tara, is it? My name is DiNozzo. Tony DiNozzo." He put out his hand. She smiled, relieved that he was being so friendly, and extended her hand as well. Instead of merely shaking it, he kissed it. She smiled again.

"The warrant?" she asked, determined to maintain a level of professionalism.

"Oh, of course." He handed it over to her. Tara looked at it carefully. Sure enough. They had a warrant for all Dr. Leavitt's case files.

"Would you like them in hard copy or digital?" she asked.

The woman looked away from Dr. Leavitt for the first time. "You sent the files of Timothy McGee's sessions?"

"Yes. You did receive them?"

"Yes, we did. That's why we're here now."

Tara's eyes went wide. "What do you mean?"

"Confidential, Tara," Tony said kindly, and Tara found herself easily distracted from the woman nearly forcing Dr. Leavitt into his office. Tony was quite the charmer. Jeremy would be annoyed that she was allowing herself to flirt, but this was kind of fun.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You pathetic excuse for a human being," Jenny spat as soon as the door was closed. "Whether we find enough proof for a criminal trial or not, your practice is finished."

"More threats?" Dr. Leavitt asked, trying to sound blasé. "I thought that Agent Gibbs would be back."

"You're lucky he's not," Jenny said. "I mean it about sticking around."

"If I don't?"

Jenny smiled…but it was not a nice smile. "Why don't you try it and find out? I'd almost like to see what you could do. Any questions?"

"Not at the moment."

"Good." She spun around and left, slamming the door behind her.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

"You have it, DiNozzo?"

"Got it."

"Good." Jenny started to leave and then she looked at the secretary sitting so quietly. "Why did you give us those files?"

"You asked for them. It's Mr. McGee's therapist's right to have access. Dr. Leavitt lost his copies and he was really worried about it. I figured I would just make it easier by giving the copies I'd made."

Jenny grinned at Tony. Honest people were so nice to work with.

"Well, thank you."

"Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Actually, yes. Tony, do you have any pictures of Smith or the others?"

"Not here."

"Miss…"

"Dearing. Tara."

"Tara, you see all of Dr. Leavitt's clients, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Do you think you could recognize a picture of them, even if you only saw them once?"

"Yes. I might not remember their names, but I'd recognize them."

"Would you mind coming down to NCIS and looking at some photos?"

Tara looked worriedly at the closed door to Dr. Leavitt's office. "I have work."

"Didn't he just tell you to cancel all his appointments for today?"

"Yes…but…"

Tony leaned over. "You might want to start looking for another job anyway, Tara."

Tara looked from Tony to Jenny. "What did he do?"

"In shorthand, he violated the Hippocratic Oath," Jenny said.

"Which part?"

"The first part."

"…oh…" Tara said, a sinking feeling in her stomach. She picked up her phone and called into the office. "Dr. Leavitt? I'm going with the NCIS people. They need me to look at some photos." She wondered if she should add anything else, but decided to just hang up. "Okay."

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

As they pulled into the parking lot, Tim tensed even more. He hardly noticed when Gibbs handed him a coat. He just looked in the direction of the falls.

"I…I don't think I can do this, Boss. I can hear them already."

"I know, but you _can_ do it. We'll take it as slowly as you need to, but you can do it, McGee."

Tim pulled on the coat, but he didn't get out of the car.

Five minutes passed…then, ten…fifteen…

Then, Tim cleared his throat. "Boss…"

"Yes, McGee?"

"How close was I?"

"When?"

"In the water…how close to the edge?"

"If I had been one minute later, you would have fallen."

Tim swallowed and nodded. Then, he got out of the car.

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"That was not very nice, Abby. Didn't you see McGee trying to talk to you?" Ziva asked as they drove down the road.

"Yes," Abby said.

"Abigail, I understand that you were hurt, but Timothy _is_ trying to apologize."

"That doesn't change anything," Abby said quietly.

"Does it not?" Ziva asked in surprise. "McGee has been through terrible things this weekend. He happened to say a few mean things to you in the depths of his pain. Now, he feels badly. How can you ignore him?"

"You didn't see his eyes, Ziva. That wasn't Tim looking at me…but it _was_ at the same time," Abby said tightly.

"I thought you were his friend."

"So did I."

"Abigail. You are acting childish," Ducky said sternly.

"I don't _care_, Ducky! Tim looked at me and he _hated_ me! I don't know _how_ to talk to him," Abby burst out.

"The same way you did before."

"I _can't_! Tim's so different."

"And how do you expect him to recover if you keep making him feel as though he has done wrong?" Ziva asked.

"I…"

"Abigail, it's all right to feel uneasy. Timothy _has_ changed, and it will take time for any measure of healing to take place, especially now. If you do not _wish_ to be his friend anymore…" Abby let out a small noise. "…then you may certainly feel that way, but if so, let _him_ know because simply ignoring him will only do more harm."

Abby whimpered a little but didn't answer.

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"Okay, here are the people we'd like you to look at, Ms. Dearing," Jenny said, laying out photographs of all the victims and their families, along with Joan and Robert Smith.

"Are these people…dead?" Tara asked. They had been fortunate enough to get real photos of all but the John Doe. All they had was his corpse.

"I'm afraid so," Jenny said, knowing it was useless to lie.

"Oh." Tara leaned over the photos again. "Well, I haven't seen any of them before." She pushed the photos of every victim to the side. "Wait…he's been in before. A couple of times. His hair was longer and he wasn't dressed in a uniform, but he was definitely there. I don't know what his problem was, but he came and saw Dr. Leavitt at least twice."

Jenny didn't say anything, but she looked at Tony. Tara had just pointed to Smith. "What was his name?"

Tara thought hard. "I don't remember. I much better with faces."

"Robert Smith?"

"No…no, definitely not."

"Would he have left his contact information with you?"

"Yes. If he had more than one session…and he did. I would have needed all his info for billing and future scheduling."

"Okay. Thank you, Ms. Dearing. You're free to go, but we may want to ask you more questions later, and if you think of anything please call us."

"Anytime…" she hesitated. "Do I need to go back?"

"Why?"

"I think Dr. Leavitt was really angry. I was actually a little afraid of him just before you came in."

"You don't have to on our account," Tony said.

Tara smiled. "I'll just take a few sick days. I haven't used a single one in five years." She stood up and left.

Jenny looked at Tony. "Well…all we have to do now is figure out which one is Robert Smith."

"Will that be enough to arrest him?"

"We could probably arrest him now, but I'd rather have everything settled. He'll get a very good lawyer and I want to be able to muzzle the attack dog before he gets a chance to speak."

"That's a nice image," Tony remarked.

"Thank you. Let's go. The files await."

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Tim stood at the head of the trail. He remembered so clearly the feeling of anticipation he'd had the last time he had come to this place. Even now, the pull was strong enough to make him shiver even though he wasn't yet cold on the outside. He still felt frozen inside.

Gibbs put his hand on Tim's shoulder. "Come on, McGee. Let's go."

"I can't, Boss. I can't go there again," Tim said.

"Yes, you can." Gibbs tightened his grip on Tim's shoulder and pushed him onto the trail itself. Surprised, Tim lurched forward. He looked back at Gibbs, anger warring with fear on his face. "The first step is always the hardest."

Tim looked down the trail and shook his head. "No, it's trying to stop at the end that's harder." Then, he squared his shoulders and started walking, his fists tightly clenched at his sides, but under his own speed. Gibbs followed, just a step behind as they walked silently toward the falls.

The woods were very quiet, but Tim could hear the sound of the falls. He didn't know if it was in his head still or if it was just the water up ahead. It didn't matter though and his pace slowed. He was tired anyway after his most recent bout, and he remembered all too well how the sound of water sent him careening over the edge of sanity. _Gibbs is here. He won'__t let me fall, _Tim thought to himself as the falls got nearer and nearer.

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"Oh, this has got to be him," Tony said.

"Why do you say that?" Jenny asked, looking up from her own file.

"M. Patrick Randle. Get it?" Tony asked.

Jenny furrowed her brow. "No."

"_One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_! Jack Nicholson! Nurse Rached?"

"I never saw that, Tony."

Tony shook his head in dismay. "You're missing out. Jack Nicholson plays a criminal who pretends to be insane in order to avoid jail time. His name is Randle Patrick McMurphy! When Smith sent the video to McGee he used the name F. Harrison and the movie line was from _Bladerunner_! Using this character is appropriate. I mean, he was going to see a shrink!" He looked down at the file again. "This address is the address of Joan Smith's family home.

Jenny opened her mouth to answer, but was interrupted by her phone. "Director Shephard." She blinked in surprise. "Yes, Ms. Dearing. Let me put you on speaker." She leaned over and pressed the appropriate button.

_"You said to call you if I remembered anything. Well, I was thinking about it, and my boyfriend was talking about having a movie night since I wouldn't be going to work tomorrow and…"_

"Ms. Dearing, what is it?" Jenny interrupted.

_"Oh, right. Sorry. A few weeks ago, we got this really strange message on the __voicemail.__"_

"What was it?"

_"It was a line from a movie, from _The Sixth Sense_. I remembered it because it's the most famous line. It's where the kid says, 'I see dead people.'"_

Tony's eyes widened. "Do you remember _when_ you got that call?"

_"Not the exact day, but it was before Mr. McGee started coming and a couple of weeks after that guy came around. Probably over a month ago. I remember though that the message was left really early in the morning."_

"Was the patient's name Patrick Randle?"

_"Oh! I think it was. I can't swear to it, but I'm pretty sure. Anyway, the voice was really creepy though. The guy really sounded freaky and scared. I told Dr. Leavitt about it, but he said just to ignore it. Sometimes crazy people call."_

"Thank you, Ms. Dearing. Did you keep the message?"

_"No. I just deleted it after Dr. Leavitt told me to. We do get some crazy messages sometimes, but usually Dr. Leavitt has me check the numbers just to see if it's a patient of his. He didn't have me do it that time. I thought it was strange, but he's my boss. Does that help?"_

"Yes. Very much so," Tony said. "We'll need you to come in and make an official statement. Can you do it tomorrow?"

_"Of course."_

"Great. Thank you, Tara."

_"You're welcome. Bye then."_

"That's enough," Tony said after they had disconnected.

"Yes. Let's get him." Jenny said. She called up to Cynthia for another warrant.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tim reached the falls and stood motionless, looking at them. "They're…they're beautiful, aren't they?"

"Yes, very," Gibbs answered.

"Then, why do I hate them so much?"

"You tell me."

Tim took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Equally slowly, he sank to the ground near the bank of the river.

"I used to love the sound of water running. I found it comforting. It was just a nice white noise, relaxing and everything. When I woke up in that bathroom and realized what he was going to do to me…" Tim leaned over the water, reaching his hand out toward it, almost hypnotized by the patterns. Gibbs put out his hand and stopped Tim's forward motion. Tim hardly seemed to notice. "…then…the last thing I heard was the water in my ears. If he had just dropped me in the water…forced me under, it would have better."

"Why, McGee?"

Tim touched the water with a single finger. "I couldn't fight him, Boss. I couldn't keep the water out. I couldn't do anything…and ever since then…" Tim suddenly put his hands over his head. "…every time I try to take control…it slips away…and I'm still drowning. I'm still _drowning_, Boss!" Tim's voice raised a notch and Gibbs tightened his grip.

"McGee, stand up." Tim didn't respond, his haunted eyes locked on the river. Gibbs grabbed him by the shoulders and stood him up forcibly. "You have complete control now, McGee."

"No…I don't. I never do," Tim said.

Gibbs shook him a little. "Yes, you do, McGee. Right now, you have to choose. Are you going to fight to get the water out of your mind or are you going to give in and die?"

Tim looked at Gibbs in shock.

"Do you think I'm kidding, McGee? I'm not. You decide _right now_." Gibbs let go.

Tim stared mutely.

"_Choose_! Death or life? There's no more middle ground here, McGee. You've nearly died twice. Neither were really of your own choosing. First, Smith nearly killed you and then you nearly killed yourself. Now…here we are. You can climb back up there and try to die again. I won't stop you. Or you can keep trying to live and I'll help."

Tim looked away from Gibbs up at the falls. He blinked away the tears. "Please, Boss."

"What?"

"Say it. Please, just say it now. I'm listening." He looked back at Gibbs, his eyes pleading.

Gibbs couldn't figure out what Tim meant at first. Then, their conversation from a month ago…it seemed like forever…came back to him: _When I think you're ready to listen, then I'll say what needs to be said…not until then._

"All right, McGee. I was more than angry when you told us what you had done. I was disappointed. You've always been the one who follows the rules, even when you don't need to. Then, you broke them at a time when you should have followed them. I can't believe that you did it, even now, but I understand why. That doesn't excuse what you did. It doesn't make it go away and you'll have to live with that for the rest of your life. I know that. You know that. It's the consequence of your actions. Nothing you or I can do will change it. Maybe you want me to say that if you ever do that again you're fired…I can't say that, McGee. Circumstances change. Lives change. We all change, but one thing I _will_ say is that you had better trust us because we are _all_ there for you…and you can't keep thinking that we'll abandon you at the first sign of trouble. Got that?"

Tim nodded without speaking.

"Now. What are you going to do, McGee? Live or die?"

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"He's still in there?" Jenny asked Agent Lovitz when she and Tony arrived at Leavitt's home.

"Yep. Hasn't left. Hasn't killed himself either in case you were wondering," Lovitz said, grinning. "We thought you'd like to do the honors."

"Thank you, Agent Lovitz. We appreciate that. Shall we, Tony?"

"I hope he resists," Tony muttered darkly. Cynthia had done some leg work for them and they now thought they knew why Leavitt had done what he did…and it only made it worse. It was amazing how easy it was to find these things when one knew to look for them.

"He won't. He's too smart for that," Jenny said as she rang the doorbell. "It was only the fact that he hired an honest woman to be his secretary that screwed things up for him."

Dr. Leavitt opened the door.

"Dr. Brian Leavitt, you are under arrest…" As Jenny read his rights, Tony looked in his eyes. There was no sign of regret and it took all his effort to stop himself from killing the man where he stood. "…you have the right to an attorney…" Dr. Lecter was a good comparison to use when looking at Dr. Leavitt, there was the same knowing look, the same calm voice. "…understand these rights as I have told them to you?"

"Yes."

"Let's go," Jenny said and yanked him none too gently down the sidewalk to the waiting car. Once they were on their way back to NCIS, she pulled out her phone and called Gibbs.

_"This is Gibbs. Leave a message."_

"Jethro, we got him. I thought you might like to know." She hung up and thought with satisfaction of the coming confrontation.

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Tim looked up at the falls again. Then, back at Gibbs once more. He thought of his family who had come running when they heard, but even more than that, he thought of his friends who had been with him the whole time, who had tried their best to help him. He had a wonderful family, but he had found wonderful friends. As hard as it was sometimes to understand them, they _were_ his friends. He looked at Gibbs again and then turned back to the water, inviting endless oblivion…_alone_. He remembered the Marine who had killed himself. He had been alone, or at least felt that way.

"I'm not alone," Tim whispered to the rushing water. He hadn't really realized it before, but he had _never_ been alone. When he had asked for help, he had received it. _Do I really want this?_ he asked himself. He noticed that Gibbs was just standing there. It really _was_ his choice. He was being left to decide on his own. The cold inside him began to thaw just a little. He turned back around.

"I'm ready, Boss."

Gibbs nodded. "Okay. Let's go."

Together they headed back to the car, leaving the falls behind.


	39. Chapter 39

**Chapter 39**

"Can you wait until we get there, Jen?" Gibbs asked as they drove away from Dark Hollow.

"How long?"

"At least an hour."

Jenny considered. "Yes. We can wait."

"Thanks." Gibbs hung up and looked at Tim. His eyes were closed, but the tension in his body showed that he was not asleep. Just because he _said_ he was ready didn't make everything easier…except resisting the urge to end it all. The feelings were still there, the uncertainties, the guilt, the pain. This was only one step. "McGee?"

Tim didn't open his eyes. Gibbs got the feeling that he had been exhausted by their little jaunt…and not just from the walk.

"They arrested Leavitt."

Tim's eyes opened. "When?"

"Just now."

"Oh."

"They're holding the interrogation for us."

"Why?"

Gibbs took his eyes off the road for a second. Tim looked afraid, not interested. The idea of having to see him again was not comforting.

"I want you to hear what he has to say."

Tim looked out the windshield at the road. "Do you think it will help?"

"Don't you want to know _why_ he did all this to you?"

"Does it really matter?" Tim asked, still not looking at Gibbs. "I did what he wanted. That's enough."

"You don't have to be there if you don't want to be, McGee. I won't force you."

Silence. After a while, they reached the edge of the park and Gibbs turned onto the highway. Still, Tim said nothing, and neither did Gibbs.

"Can I change first?" Tim asked as they got onto I-66. "I don't want to wear these clothes anymore."

Gibbs looked over at the jeans and t-shirt Tim was wearing…the same clothes he'd been wearing when he had decided to kill himself. He could understand Tim's need to get rid of them.

"Sure," he answered. Tim didn't say anything more. He leaned back against the window and let his eyes close again.

Gibbs returned his focus to the road and increased his speed. If they were going to Silver Spring first, that would add some time onto the trip.

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"I…I won't actually have to _talk_ to him…will I?" Tim asked as they rode up the elevator. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he flushed and looked away. He knew that had sounded silly.

Gibbs didn't sound amused. "No, McGee. You won't. Just stay in observation. He'll never know you're there."

Tim nodded and tried not to sound too relieved. "Okay."

The doors opened and they together they walked toward Interrogation. As they entered the observation room, Tony, Ziva and Jenny were all staring malevolently through the mirror at Leavitt and his lawyer.

Tony looked back. "Boss, what took you so…" he stopped as he saw Tim a step behind. "…Probie…what are you doing here?"

"Observing, Tony," Tim said quietly.

"Are you sure that's…" Tony began and then trailed off at Gibbs' glare. "Great! Have a seat!" He pulled one of the chairs from by the observation equipment and patted it invitingly. "Come on!"

Tim hesitated and then walked over to the chair. He was still of two minds about this whole thing anyway. He didn't notice Gibbs and Jenny walk out together, talking in low voices. He barely heard Tony continuing to prattle on about one thing or another. His attention was arrested on the man sitting at the table. Now, after being away from his direct influence for two weeks, Tim could look at him and feel a kind of dull anger for what Leavitt had done to him. He could accept it in his head that Leavitt _had_ done something to him…but the feelings were all still there. He had said nothing that Tim hadn't said to himself before, but it was somehow so much worse than it had been.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tony and Ziva watched Tim as he stared at Leavitt through the glass. There was an expression of a kind of horrific fascination on his face. He didn't respond to their queries and his entire body quivered with tension. They met each other's gaze and asked each other silently what to do. They knew that Jenny was briefing Gibbs on everything they and Cynthia had found and it would take a few minutes. Ziva suddenly got a mischievous smile on her face. Tony cocked his head to the side in confusion. She grinned more widely and then leaned over and kissed Tim on the cheek.

He jumped and his hand moved quickly to his cheek as if he'd been burned. He looked up at Ziva, his face slowly reddening.

"What was that for?" he asked, and Tony was relieved to note that he was _not_ looking back at Leavitt…and that the tension was easing from his body.

"I won. I was collecting my prize," Ziva said, still smiling.

"Won what?" Tim asked.

Tony grinned as he remembered. "I bet that I would find something that connected you to the murders before Ziva did."

"Kissing me was the prize?" Tim asked, blushing more brightly.

"It was Tony's idea," Ziva said, staring at him pointedly.

Tim swallowed and looked over at Tony and noted that his face was reddening slightly. "So…if you had won…?"

"Don't even go there, Probie."

Tim looked down and then looked up again. "Haven't you already?"

Ziva let out a snort of laughter, and Tony, without thinking, slapped Tim upside the head. For a moment, he felt chagrined and then he noticed that Tim had moved his hand from his cheek to the back of his head…and he didn't look bothered by the attack. There was actually a small expression of relief on his face. Tony was about to ask why when the door to the interrogation room opened and Gibbs and Jenny both walked in. Tim's eyes were drawn back to the room in an instant, Tony and Ziva forgotten once more. Tony looked at him again and then snuck out for a minute, afraid that they might end up needing the cavalry.

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Gibbs entered the room, his blood boiling. What Jenny had told him had not made him feel any better about what had happened. He was beginning to wish that he really _had_ just killed Dr. Leavitt.

"This is an outrage," the lawyer burst out. "How dare you leave us sitting in here for so long."

"Just trying to get you used to the feeling of being confined," Gibbs said through clenched teeth. "I told you I'd make sure you lived to regret what you did." Jenny nudged his foot in warning. He glanced sideways at her and nodded infinitesimally. He took a breath and sat down. "Dr. Leavitt, you know why you're here, I take it?"

"Dr. Leavitt is under _no_ obligation to answer _any_ of your questions," the lawyer said immediately.

"Okay," Gibbs said. "We'll let his own words do the talking then." He nodded at the window.

_"__Oh, Tim. You know how everyone feels. We've talked about this before."_

They heard no real words from Tim, only loud sobs…and a strange scraping noise.

_"You were supposed to die. You weren't supposed to survive. You've only made things harder for everyone. You say you want to help, but wouldn't it have been easier if you had simply not decided to live? No one would have had to make any sort of concessions for you."_

_"Please…please, Dr. Leavitt. No more…no more water.__ Stop it, please!__"_

Gibbs was pleased to note that Leavitt's lawyer had a look of surprise on his face, nearly one of disgust.

_"The water is your punishment, Tim. It is not for you to stop it. It will never stop…at least not while you live."_

More incoherent sobbing filled the air as Gibbs looked back and made the sign to stop the recording.

"Do you need more, Dr. Leavitt?" he asked, maliciously.

Jenny grinned to herself when she noticed that the lawyer seemed to have lost his train of thought for a moment. Then, she leaned forward. "We also have proof that you have had contact with Robert Smith, first, under the guise of M. Patrick Randle and then in the middle of his killing spree." When neither of them responded, she added, "'I see dead people.' Does that ring a bell?"

Gibbs made a show of looking down at his notes. "You've had quite the career, Dr. Leavitt, awards, commendations, lots of good contacts within various government agencies, not to mention that very nice office you had…er, have. What a shame you gave it all up just for money."

"It wasn't just the money," Leavitt said, finally speaking on his own.

The lawyer seemed to realize that he was not doing his job and pulled himself together. "Dr. Leavitt!"

"They have most of it already, you know," he said quietly, in the same calm voice with which he had addressed Tim in the recorded sessions.

The lawyer spoke over him. "What kind of a deal are you offering?"

Jenny allowed herself to laugh outright. "Deal? Are you joking? We have, not only Dr. Leavitt's 'therapy' sessions with Agent McGee, we also have testimony from his assistant about his connection to Robert Smith. In addition, we found that he has been, for the last three months been receiving automated payments from an account _we_ have connected to Joan Smith's life insurance policy to the tune of nearly $500,000. His reasons for it are unimportant in the eyes of the court. They will only see a man who was abused and driven to suicide by the very person who was supposed to be helping him. At the least it's negligent homicide, and with the recordings we have, no jury would fail to see intent in Dr. Leavitt's words. That's attempted murder, even if it was driving Agent McGee to kill himself. We don't need to offer a _deal_. Your client is going to jail…for a very long time." Jenny stood, followed closely by Gibbs.

"Wait," Dr. Leavitt said, still very calm.

Jenny turned back.

"It wasn't the money."

"What was it, then, Dr. Leavitt? What in the world possessed you to destroy an innocent man, a _patient_?"

Dr. Leavitt leaned forward, still speaking earnestly, but quietly. "How many psychiatrists do you know, Director Shephard, Agent Gibbs? How many tales have you read of miracle breakthroughs, accomplished by the power of being able to direct a person's thoughts away from the trauma and onto life?"

Gibbs and Jenny looked at each other without comment.

"If I were to plead guilty and save the cost of a trial, what would that be worth?"

Gibbs looked at him, his eyes cold. "I don't know, Dr. Leavitt. What is a life worth to you?"

Dr. Leavitt looked at him and actually smiled. "Tim should be quite happy to have people like you around him. Keep him safe, do you?"

Gibbs took a threatening step toward Leavitt, but Jenny held him back.

"You see, Agent Gibbs? You see how _easy_ it is? Any psychiatrist worth his salt has thought about it. Any psychiatrist who says he hasn't is lying, either to himself or to you. When one understands human emotions to such a degree, and the way of manipulation is so clear…the temptation is there."

"The temptation for what?" Jenny asked.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Three and a half months ago…_

"I beg your pardon," Leavitt said. "Are you asking me what I _think_ you are?"

"I don't know, Doctor. What _do_ you think I'm asking?"

Leavitt's eyes flicked to the recorder sitting on his desk and then to the locked door.

"Decisions, decisions, eh? I'll make it easier for you. I'm not really here for therapy, Dr. Leavitt. I'm here making an offer."

"Why me?"

"In the last five years, you have, almost exclusively, been the recommended psychiatrist for every NCIS special agent in need of therapy. That tells me something."

"What's that?"

"It tells me that should my plan succeed, the odds are that _you_ will be the one to see the fruits of my labors."

"And should it not?"

"I'll pay you just for being willing to do it."

"What makes you think I'll follow through?"

"Because, Doctor…I can see it. You are intrigued at the idea that you could possibly get away with it. That's why."

Leavitt said nothing.

"I'll make another appointment and give you time to think about it." The man who had introduced himself as M. Patrick Randle left. Before the door closed, he heard Randle making another appointment.

-----------

"If I do this, what's in it for me?" Leavitt asked Randle the next week.

Randle just laughed. "I already told you what you'd be paid, but looking around this office, you don't really need the money. You know what the real draw is."

Leavitt looked at him and considered. He wondered why he wasn't more horrified at what Randle was suggesting…at what he was offering. The chance to, essentially, create his own Frankenstein monster…and be paid for it.

"Well, Dr. Leavitt?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Present…_

Tim was suddenly standing. He didn't remember actually getting up. He felt Ziva and Tony on either side of him, but he couldn't hear what they were saying over the roaring in his ears. It wasn't just about money. Tim was the person he had been handed…a machine to be manipulated. He felt ill… horrified. This was as bad as Smith…no it was _worse_. Smith had a _real_ reason for it. Then, Tim realized that he was _not_ just horrified. He was furious. His emotions had been operating at extremes in any case, but now, he felt an uncontrollable rage take over. He began to move toward the door, but he couldn't. He couldn't figure out why he was unable to move but then he felt restraining hands on his arms and, over the thudding in his ears, he heard voices. He didn't want to listen to them. He didn't want to hear the voices telling him…as Dr. Leavitt had so many times…to calm down. He didn't want to think. He didn't want to analyze. He wanted to _react_. He wanted to make Dr. Leavitt feel every single moment of pain that he had. If he couldn't force the mental anguish, he could make him feel it physically, every whit.

Tim pulled against the hands holding him back, trying to force his way out of the room. He didn't even notice that he was shaking, that he was speaking incoherently in a low voice. All he knew was that he wanted to make Dr. Leavitt suffer. In reality, he was feeling much the same way the rest of them had felt upon learning of Leavitt's actions. The difference was that Tim had been the victim…as he had been for the last two months. He was the one to whom this had happened and he wanted to destroy it…mostly in an effort to make it go away.

"Timothy, stop. Listen to me. Stop."

Finally, the voice penetrated the haze. Tim blinked and looked at Ducky, feeling a small measure of his fury fade. Angry tears sprang to his eyes. His breath was harsh enough to echo in his ears.

"He did this on purpose," he said in a strangled voice.

"Yes, yes, he did," Ducky said calmly.

"He didn't care!"

"No, you're right. Leavitt did _not_ care about you at all."

Tim pulled against the restraining hands again. "Let me go!" he shouted.

"No, they won't do that, Timothy."

"He deserves…he deserves to die! I want him to _die_!"

"That wouldn't be right."

"I don't care! I don't care what's _right_!" Tim declared. "_He_ didn't care! Why should I?"

"Because…Timothy," Ducky said firmly. "You are a better man than he."

"I don't _want_ to be!" Tim said, renewing his bid for the door. He hadn't really noticed that Tony and Ziva were holding onto him. They were simply other obstacles stopping him. "I want…I want…"

Ducky put his hands on Tim's shoulders and forced Tim to look at him. "You want to be free from what he did. Beating Leavitt, although certainly satisfying in the abstract, would not help make you free."

Tim held Ducky's gaze for a long moment and then sagged. "He didn't even believe it," he whispered.

"No, more than likely not. He took emotions that you were feeling and magnified them."

Tony and Ziva both relaxed their grips, relieved that Tim had calmed down.

"It's…not…right. It's not fair," Tim said finally, dropping his head.

"No, it is not, McGee," Ziva said quietly, putting her hand on his back.

Tim spared a glance at Tony who had not yet spoken. They could almost feel the effort Tim expended as he smiled and said, "What? No glib movie reference, Tony?"

Tony smiled in return and shook his head. "The best I got is _Silence of the Lambs_, but you're no Jodie Foster."

Tim let out a harsh laugh. "No…I can honestly say that we have little in common."

"Good thing, McGee. Otherwise, I might start worrying about you."

Tim looked back at Ducky. "I've heard enough. I would like to leave now."

The words were said very calmly, but Ducky heard the longing to get away. He nodded. "I can certainly understand that."

Tim then, for the first time, looked behind Ducky…as if he were searching for someone.

"She is down in the lab, McGee," Ziva said, correctly interpreting his search. "I am sure she is not too busy."

Tim looked back and Ziva and smiled, but he shook his head. "I can talk to her later…when she's ready." He looked around at them all and added, "Could I get a ride home? My car is here…but…I'm not sure I should be driving right now."

That simple acknowledgment of his current state actually took Ducky aback. He hadn't had a chance to ask Gibbs what the results of their return to Dark Hollow had been.

"I'll give you a ride, McGee," Tony offered quickly.

"Thanks, Tony."

"Take a couple of days, Timothy. Come back when you feel ready."

Tim nodded and looked over his shoulder toward Leavitt again. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

"You ready, McGee?" Tony asked.

Tim nodded again and walked out. Tony followed behind him.

Ziva looked at Ducky after they were gone. "How is he, Ducky?"

"Better than I thought he would be, actually. His anger was certainly surprising, but it was directed outward and not at himself. I won't pretend that it will stay that way, but it's a good start."

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Gibbs strode out of the room. He allowed the door to close behind him before he allowed his disgust to show.

"You're going to make a deal…aren't you," he said flatly.

Jenny sighed behind him. "Yes, Jethro. I am."

Gibbs spun around and confronted her in anger. "Why? You said it yourself! We can take him down without a deal, without a guilty plea."

Jenny kept herself calm as she answered. "Do you really want to put McGee through a trial?"

That stopped Gibbs cold.

"I don't want him to be forced to sit on the stand and relive every moment of the past three months. I don't want him to have to justify or explain what he did. I don't want him to have to relive his near-drowning. McGee is on shaky enough ground as it is. If I have to agree to making that monster eligible for parole, I will. He'll still serve jail time. We're agreeing to avoid a life sentence with the possibility for parole. We're not just letting him go." Gibbs opened his mouth, but Jenny kept talking. "Look, Jethro, if it weren't for McGee, I wouldn't even listen. I'd make sure he got what he deserved, but I'd rather be lenient in this case."

Gibbs nodded. "Okay, Jen."

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tony didn't try to make conversation as he drove Tim home. There was something slightly off-putting in his manner. Normally, he would try to make a joke to ease the tension, but that didn't seem appropriate…and for some reason, Tony found that he was actually listening to his own thoughts and keeping quiet.

"Tony?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

"For what?"

"For…" Tim trailed off. "…for giving me a ride." That obviously wasn't what Tim had planned on saying, but Tony figured that it was good enough.

They pulled into the parking lot and saw Tim's family waiting. Tim began to open the door.

"McGee?"

Tim turned back. "Yeah?"

"Are you going to be okay?"

Tim leaned against the seat for a moment, looking pensive. Then, he let out a long sigh.

"I hope so." He hitched one shoulder and got out of the car. Tony watched as he approached his family and was enveloped in a group hug. That made him smile. If wishing could make it so…Tim didn't stand a chance.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Three days later…_

Tim sat quietly at his typewriter. He had managed, over the past couple of days, to rewrite his chapter…and change the ending. It might sell a lot of books, but he couldn't bear to have that in there. He had modified it and sent it off to Lyndi, along with his deepest apologies. She had been unimpressed by his apologies, but had taken the chapter and exchanged it…for his next deadline. He had spent most of the past days with his family. It was strange but he couldn't remember the last time they had all been together for more than a day, not even around Christmas. He looked back toward his bedroom. Sarah was asleep still. They had stayed up late last night talking, but where she was making up for the lost time, Tim had been awakened by his old nightmare again. He knew the nightmare wouldn't go away just because he now knew why he'd been having so much trouble…but that didn't make it any easier to bear while it was happening. With a small smile, he ran his fingers over the keys. He'd been sitting here for at least an hour, not even trying to write, just sitting. Not even thinking very much. The thinking was done. What was left was the need for action.

He took a deep breath and stood. He didn't move for a few minutes, each step taking more effort than he had anticipated. He knew it was the right thing to do, but that didn't make it any easier. Another deep breath and he padded softly into the bedroom. He sat down on the edge of the bed and shook Sarah gently.

"Sarah?"

She yawned and rolled over. "What is it, Tim?"

"We need to talk."

"About what?"

Tim shook his head. "No…_all_ of us."


	40. Chapter 40

**Chapter 40**

"It's time for you to leave," Tim announced without any preamble, leaning on the table in the hotel restaurant two hours later. He hadn't brought it up throughout the meal, but he decided to just get it out of the way. A small part of him enjoyed the surprise on everyone's faces as he looked at his family. He hadn't mentioned it at all, even though it had been in his head for the last two days. It was the next step…and it would force them to get back to _their_ lives. He didn't like knowing that they had all put their lives on hold just to help him stay sane.

"Tim…" Naomi began, the first to find her tongue after his announcement.

"Mom, I know," Tim interrupted. He really wanted them all to understand, not just resign themselves. "It's sudden, but I think it's the right thing."

"Are you sure?" she asked.

"I've been thinking about this a lot," Tim said. "You guys can't just sit around here and be with me forever. Don't get me wrong; I've liked it. We haven't had chance to be together like this for awhile, but…"

"Tim, three days is not forever. It hasn't even been a week since Agent Gibbs called us," Naomi protested.

"I didn't just wake up this morning and decide that you all had to go. It's something that's been in my mind. I've been thinking about it carefully."

"For how long, Tim?" Sam asked.

Tim looked at Sam, flicked his eyes away and then brought them back, almost defiantly. "For two days."

"Two days!" Sarah burst out. Some of the other diners looked over at their table and Sarah flushed. "Two days!" she repeated more softly. "And you never said anything?"

"I wanted to be sure…" Tim hesitated about saying this explicitly, but, looking at his family's shocked and stubborn expressions, he decided it would be better if they knew _everything_. "…that…_I_ wanted this, that this decision wasn't motivated by the part of me that still would like to just end it…because it's true: that feeling is still there. I can't just make it go away, no matter how much I want to. I'm trying now, but it will take time, and you can't wait until I'm…better before you go." Naomi began to protest again, but Tim plowed on. "Dad, you have classes to teach. Sarah has classes to take." He turned to her. "I know that you've put off that huge project just to stay with me…and I appreciate it, but you can't put your life on hold."

"Yes, I can, Tim," Sarah said. "It's not a big deal."

"Yes, it _is_, Sarah. It's your life. You can't trade your life for mine. It doesn't work like that, and I don't _want_ it to work like that. I don't want you to…to spend all this time thinking you have to take care of me."

Sarah started to speak and then fell silent as Tim looked at Naomi.

"Mom, you were talking about taking classes again and I _know_ you miss working."

"Tim, that's all just extraneous… _stuff_. It's not as important as you, as our family."

Tim struggled not to just give in. He didn't _want_ to give in. It would be easier, but it wasn't what he wanted.

"Mom, please. This is _my_ decision. It's what I want…more than that, it's what I need. I need to learn to be by myself again."

"There's time for that."

"I don't think there is. If I just let you stay, if I keep on this way, it will be too easy to let it continue and too hard to let you go again."

Naomi sat quietly in her chair, her back straight, her shoulders square. She looked almost regal in her bearing and her expression was calm. Most people looking at her would never guess how much turmoil she was feeling at that moment, but Tim knew. He knew because he was like her. He knew how she felt and he knew that she would hold it in, just like he did.

"I don't want to leave you alone again, Tim," she said softly.

Tim smiled. "Mom…I _won't_ be alone." Unbidden, tears sprang to his eyes and he struggled to hold them back. "I've never been alone, not once in this whole mess. I just didn't realize it before. You've met them all now. You know what they're like. They won't let me go, just like you won't, just like we wouldn't with Dad. I won't pretend it's not going to be hard, but I _get_ it now, Mom. …and I need you all to trust me, and let me choose."

Sam hadn't said much up to this point. He was listening and watching. He was making sure that Tim really knew what he was saying. Now, he grabbed Tim's arm and forced him to look at him.

"Tim…are you _really_ sure?"

Tim met his gaze without flinching. Sam could see the darkness, the burden Tim still carried, but he also saw determination, that stubbornness that so characterized them all. He _was_ sure.

"Yes, Dad. I am."

Sam was silent at first, just looking at Tim, remembering his own experience, trying to understand his son.

"Dad, please," Tim said.

Sam smiled and recited, "To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven… a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace."

Tim smiled back…and Sarah let out a reluctant laugh at the quotation.

"He's right, Naomi. It's time for us to go," Sam said. He looked at Sarah. "And it's time for you to go back to your dorm." He wheeled himself back from the table and looked at Tim. "Help me navigate, Tim." He didn't need the help. They all knew that, but that meant he wanted to talk…privately.

Obediently, Tim pushed Sam through the restaurant, weaving among the tables until they reached the lobby. Then, Tim let go and walked beside his father as they headed to the elevator and up to the room. When they got inside, Sam shook his head.

"I will never understand how your mother can be so anal about cleaning the house and yet turn every hotel room into a pig sty after a day."

"It takes talent," Tim said, looking at the clothes draped over nearly every available surface.

Sam pointed to the chair and Tim sat down so that he could be at eye level.

"Tim…"

Tim didn't say anything.

"Is this just about feeling guilty for dragging us out here? …because do you know how much leave time I have saved up? If we could afford it, I could take a three-month vacation."

Tim leaned forward, his arms on his knees. "No, Dad. This isn't just about feeling guilty."

"That's a part of it, though, isn't it."

Tim stared at the floor.

"Tim, we chose this. You know that, right? We wouldn't want to be anywhere else while you still need us. Besides, this time away might persuade my students to more fully appreciate my witty repartee."

Tim laughed a little. "You're right. It _is_ a part…but _only_ a part."

Sam wheeled closer. "I'll back you up on this, but I need to know that you've thought this through, Tim. You know how close I came, and how, but for you coming home, I would have gone through with it. It was only having you three around that reminded me how much I stood to lose. Will you forget that once we're gone?"

Tim lifted his head, and Sam caught the brief flash of fear, pain, guilt, all the emotions that had so afflicted Tim's mind.

"I can't say for sure, but I _can_ say that I'm going to try. I've thought this through. If it will make you feel better about leaving, I promise to call every night if necessary. I'm going to go back to work tomorrow, if Director Shephard and Gibbs will let me. I need to get my life back, Dad. I feel as though…as if it's been someone else's life. I feel like I've had no control over what happens to me. I need to get that back…and as much as I love you, I can't when you're here."

Sam looked at Tim for a long time in silence. Tim didn't say anything more.

"One condition."

"What's that?"

"I know you, Tim. You wouldn't call Sarah if you had trouble, would you."

Tim looked over Sam's shoulder to the window. "No. I wouldn't."

"I thought not. I don't blame you. I think you _could_, but I understand why you won't. Don't leave her out of this, though. She's worried too."

"I…I won't, Dad."

"Okay. That brings me to my condition."

Tim refocused his attention. "Shoot."

"Use that second family you work with. They're _here_, Tim. They can help. They _have_ helped. I want you to promise me that if you have trouble you'll ask them for help."

"Dad…" Tim began.

"I don't care if it's two in the blessed a.m., Tim. They won't care, either. If you feel like you're drowning, you need someone to pull you out. I don't care who, but you get help. You can't do it all on your own. I know that better than anyone."

Tim was silent, digesting this condition.

"I mean it, Tim. If you won't promise me that, we can't leave…because I know you. You're too much like your mother, and you won't ask for help if you don't say you will. But if you promise me, I'll believe you."

When Tim didn't answer right away, Sam pushed on, trying to get Tim to see what it had taken him seconds to notice.

"Your team, your _friends_, they care about you so much. I could see it in their eyes. They may not know how to help you, but they care, and they _want_ to help. They will be there for you if you let them. You said that you aren't alone, and you're not…but you _have_ to let them in, Tim. Hard as it may be, you have to let them in."

Finally, Tim nodded. "Okay." When Sam raised an eyebrow, Tim expanded on that. "I promise I'll call them when I need help."

"Okay." Sam leaned back and began to roll to the door. "Remember what I said about Sarah."

"I will," Tim said and stood to follow.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The parting, when it came a few hours later, was brief. Hugs all around. Naomi held Tim so tightly that he didn't think she'd let him go again. Sam skewered him with an intense stare which Tim acknowledged. He made a date to meet Sarah for breakfast on Saturday and promised to call home every night. Then, finally, Tim returned to his apartment. It was quiet, empty…but not yet oppressive. Tim took a deep breath and pulled out his phone.

"Hello, Director Shephard's office. How may I help you?"

"Cynthia?"

"Agent McGee." The pleasure in Cynthia's voice at hearing him was palpable and took Tim by surprise.

"Yes. Is the director available?"

"She's in a meeting at the moment. Would you like to leave her a message?"

"Um…yes. I want to come back to work tomorrow…if she'll let me," Tim said in a rush.

"Would you like her to call you back?"

"If she has the time. I don't want to be any trouble."

"It won't be any trouble, Agent McGee," Cynthia said and for some reason, Tim could picture her smiling. "I'll let her know and get back to you."

"Thank you."

"You're very welcome," Cynthia replied and hung up.

Tim leaned back. That had been relatively painless. The next call was slightly more stressful.

"Gibbs."

Tim swallowed nervously. No matter how often he heard that voice, his first reaction was anxiety.

"Hi, Boss."

"McGee."

"Yes." Tim wasn't sure how to phrase his next sentence.

"What is it, McGee?"

"I…well…I've asked Director Shephard if I can come back tomorrow." Before Gibbs could say anything, Tim rushed on, "I'll…I'll be on desk duty or whatever you want, Boss. I just need to be back at work…if I can."

"Okay."

The terse answers weren't doing anything for Tim's confidence level, but he had made a promise and he had to keep it.

"Boss?"

"What, McGee?"

"There's just one other thing."

"What?"

Tim wished that Gibbs would speak more than one word at a time. He had absolutely no way of gauging his mood.

"Well…I…I sent my family home today."

"You did _what_?"

_Okay…disbelief. Well, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised by that._ "I sent my family home."

"Why?"

"It's what I needed to do, but…I promised that…" Tim trailed off, not wanting ask, but knowing that he needed to.

"Spit it out, McGee," Gibbs said, his voice still unreadable.

"I promised that I would ask for help if I needed it, but in order to do that, I figured that people would need to know that it might come up." Tim swallowed and then asked, very tentatively, "If it comes to that, Boss…can I call you?"

There was a silence on the end of the line that seemed to last forever. Tim didn't dare break it himself.

Then, Gibbs said, in a different voice, "Of course, McGee. You can call any of us, at any time."

"Th-thanks, Boss."

"See you tomorrow, McGee."

"Yes…okay, Boss." Tim hung up and let out a sigh of relief. He was going back!

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Tony settled back on his couch with another bowl of popcorn and watched the tense ending of _Vertigo_. He'd seen it a million times, but he still got the chills. Alfred Hitchcock was the master, no doubt about it. He followed Scottie and Judy up the stairs in the church tower.

_"__And I couldn't follow her. God knows I tried. One doesn't often get a second chance. I want to stop being haunted. You're my second chance, Judy.__"_

It was so rare that TCM showed the movies he wanted to see when he had the time to watch them. He smiled contentedly. It was one of their Hitchcock marathons. He would have to be sure to turn off the television as soon as the show was over; otherwise, he'd start watching whatever came next and he'd end up staying awake all night long.

_"Scottie, please! You love me now! Love me! Keep me safe!"_

Tony began to lean forward as the climax approached. Closer and closer…and then, in typical Hitchcock style, the climax isn't at all what one expects.

…Tony jumped as his phone started to ring. He looked at it in annoyance. He leaned over to pick it up and heard the nun speaking as he connected.

_"God have mercy…"_

"Yello," Tony answered.

"Oh…" And then nothing…although there was still someone there, Tony was sure of it.

"Hello?"

A whispered voice. "Sorry. I…must have…" It trailed off again.

"McGee?" Tony asked and turned off the television before Scottie could get back to Midge's place. "What is it?"

There was a laugh…tinged with hysteria, but a laugh nonetheless. "It's been weeks. I don't…I don't know how I missed it."

"Missed what?"

There was a muffled sob…and then silence.

"McGee? You still there?"

"Tony…I'm sorry…I…It's okay. I'm fine," Tim said, although it was patently a lie. "I'll…I'll just see you tomorrow."

"Whoa! Hold on, there, McGee. What's going on?"

Another muffled sob. "It's…nothing…nothing really. I was just…cleaning."

"Cleaning?"

"I…I couldn't sleep." Another tear-filled laugh. "He must have been a good SEAL."

Tony could see dangerous waters ahead, even if he had no idea what Tim was talking about. "Why do you say that?"

"He thought…he was going to kill me, Tony…but still…he was ready with Dr. Leavitt…and now…with this. I wonder if he knew…"

Tony could hear that Tim was hanging on by a thread.

"Slow down, turbo. What is this?"

"Just a…message in a bottle…for me…from him."

"Oh." Tony wasn't sure what to do. "What does it say?"

"I don't know….I couldn't…read it. I just…saw the picture and I…" Another laugh. Tony was very bothered by that laugh. It sounded too much like the edge of insanity. "…kind of fell apart."

"Where is it, then?"

"In…my hand…the same place it's been for the last hour. …I can't put it down." Once again, Tim let out an hysterical chuckle. "It's…quite…gripping."

"Oh, McGee, I don't think now is the time for bad jokes."

Tim's breathing became audible

"If I don't make jokes…I'm not sure I can…" Tim trailed off and let out an audible sob.

Tony could tell that this wasn't going to be solved over the phone. It was coming on the heels of too much already, plus his family was gone. He made a decision. "Okay, McGee. I'm going to put you on hold for a minute. I don't want you to hang up. Just wait. Got that?"

"Yeah…" he whispered.

"Okay." Tony put Tim on hold and called Ziva. She was closest.

"Tony? What is it? I already told you that I was not interested in staying up late to watch movies."

"It's McGee," Tony said, needing to get the ball rolling too much to worry about wisecracks.

"Oh…what is it?"

"Apparently, Smith left something for him. It's done a number on him whatever it is, and I don't think he can get through it just by talking on the phone. You're the closest."

"He is in his apartment, yes?"

"Yes."

"He is not attempting to kill himself again, I hope?"

"I don't think so…not yet anyway. _He_ called _me_. I think he's trying to hold it together, but it won't last."

"I will be there in five minutes."

"Okay." Tony hung up and got back on with Tim. To his relief, he could still hear Tim breathing, but it worried him that he sounded so freaked out. "McGee?"

"…Hey…Tony…"

"Ziva's on her way over. Just sit tight. I was watching the Hitchcock marathon on TCM."

"Which one?" Tim asked, still on the verge of hyperventilating.

"_Vertigo_."

"Not _Psycho_, huh?"

Tony hated talking about such trivial things when Tim was so obviously in need of help, but he had to admit that he was too far away to be able to get there in good time. This was the best he could do.

"Nope. Not tonight."

Silence.

"McGee?"

"Why is he doing this to me, Tony?" Tim asked in a mournful whisper.

"Because he was a sick and twisted psycho," Tony answered. "That's all, McGee. Full stop."

Tim broke down crying, sounding much like he had on the tapes of his sessions with Dr. Leavitt. Tony heard a thump, but the crying continued. Tony couldn't get another word out of him. He was more than relieved when he heard Ziva's distant voice over the phone.

_"McGee? Where are you?" _A pause and then Ziva spoke again, her voice louder. _"Oh…McGee, it is all right. Let me see. …you must let go. Let me see it." _A rustling of paper and then an almost bestial snarl of anger. _"Where was this? Where did he place this filth?"_ There was no response from Tim, just continued sobbing. The phone cracked on the floor. Tim must have dropped it. _"It is a lie, McGee. Those words are lies. The image is a lie. None of it is true."_

Finally…_finally_, Tim spoke again, his voice muffled and choked with tears. _"It was so…real. It was at the bottom of my…my drawer. I…I saw it and it was folded. I didn't know what it was. I looked…and…"_

_"I understand, McGee. It is all right. I will stay until you are ready."_ Then, suddenly her voice was in his ear. "Tony are you still there?"

"Yeah, what was it?"

The anger was back in her voice as she described the message. "It is another manipulated photograph of McGee killing Joan Smith. He wrote three words on the back: liar, murderer, and failure."

Tony shared in the fury. Tim just couldn't catch a break.

"I will stay for a while longer. We will see you tomorrow."

Tony was loathe to hang up, but seeing as he wasn't helping by just sitting there, he said good-bye and disconnected. It was a long time before he could get to sleep.

------------------------------------------------------------------

Ziva sat on the floor beside Tim's bed…where he had fallen, trying to sit down before. She had an arm around Tim and his head was on her shoulder.

When he could finally speak again, he said, "Thanks for being here, Ziva."

Ziva leaned her head against his. "Thank _you_ for letting me be here."

"Would you stay…just a little longer?"

"Yes. As long as you need me to be here."

"Thank you."

When Ziva left an hour later, Tim was asleep and the photo was in her hand…crumpled in her tightly clenched fist. She wished that Smith was not dead already…so she could kill him.


	41. Chapter 41

**Chapter 41**

_Friday morning…_

Tim awoke to the sound of his phone ringing. He sat up, wincing slightly. He had fallen asleep in a very awkward position. The phone kept ringing. There was a bitter aftertaste from…something in his mouth and his eyes were all scratchy. The phone was still ringing and finally Tim clued into the idea that he might need to answer it.

"Hello?"

"Probie!" Tony's forced tone made Tim smile. After the night he'd had, it was no wonder Tony was trying to put a happy face on it.

"What's up, Tony? Did I miss a memo that work starts an hour earlier?"

"No." The forced joviality faded. "I wanted to see how you were doing."

Tim gulped back the tears that suddenly pricked his lids.

"…and I thought you might like some company for breakfast."

Tim regained control and said, "Where are you? I know you live on the opposite side of DC."

"I'm…well, I'm almost to your place," Tony confessed. "I thought I'd give you the heads up…"

"A heads up?"

"…and a chance to say no if you wanted."

The smile slipped from Tim's lips. He couldn't believe how much that meant to him…the simple choice, the opportunity to make a decision…and _know_ that it was his own.

"I'd like that, Tony," Tim said finally. "Why don't you call Ziva, too? She's nearby, too."

Tony hesitated and then added, "What about Abby?"

Of all the things that Tim didn't want to think or talk about, his…loss of friendship with Abby was pretty high on the list, mainly because he didn't know _how_ to fix it.

"Not until she's ready. I don't want to push her."

"I'll do it," Tony said.

Tim forced a laugh. "No."

"Okay," Tony answered. He paused and Tim wondered if he was going to ask why, but he didn't. "Be ready when we get there, Probie. I don't want to have to wait."

"You won't," Tim said and then hung up. That had been a nice way to wake up, no chance to think about anything beyond answering the phone. Now that he was alone again, he looked around the room and found himself wondering if he'd come upon some other message from the grave. He took a deep breath. "I can't just sit here. Nothing ventured, nothing gained." He stood and began to gather his clothing.

No sinister messages appeared and he had no trouble at all. He worried a little about showering though. Sarah had been there for his last breakdown. As much as he hated the idea of his little sister being forced to calm him down, he had to admit that it was a relief not to worry about being stuck in there on his own. He saw his hand start to shake as he reached out to turn on the water in the shower.

"Stop. You're not doing this anymore," he said, clenching his hand into a tight fist. He closed his eyes and breathed in deeply. Then, he let all the air out and forced himself to turn on the water. Without stopping to think, he stepped under the spray, washing his body as quickly as he could. Two minutes later, he turned off the water with a tearful sigh of relief. He had done it. As sad as it was, he considered it a small triumph that he had been able to turn on and off the water without having a meltdown. He climbed out, shivering a little as the cooler air hit his body. He still felt too cold most of the time. It didn't matter what his actual body temperature was. He was cold. Another three minutes saw him dressed and out of the bathroom.

From there, it was a simple matter to gather all his stuff in preparation to leave. As he looked around for anything he might have missed, he noticed his badge and gun. It was a simple matter to add his badge to his pocket, but he paused for a long moment and stared at his gun.

-----------------------------------------------------------

"What do you think, Ducky?" Jenny asked. "Is he ready to come back?"

"Yes, without a doubt," Ducky said. "Timothy needs to get back to his regular routine as much as possible. He needs the _occupied_ time more than anything else. However, I am not sure if he should be put in high-stress positions as yet, particularly those requiring quick decisions."

"Why is that?"

"He is still recovering from his suicide attempt. He is still recovering from the abuse inflicted upon him by Dr. Leavitt. It will take some time, but we don't want to make him feel useless either. It's going to be a delicate balance."

"So…no field work, then?" Gibbs asked.

"For now, I'll say no. He should take a week or so to readjust to being back. Then, we'll see how he feels later on."

"Do you think he'll be ready at the end of his probation?"

"It's impossible to say. Much depends on Timothy and how much effort he is willing to put into his recovery." Ducky began to stand and then he stopped. "One other thing."

"Yes?"

"I'm not sure how to put this, but I will attempt to explain it accurately. We must be careful about what is said to him for the next little while."

"What do you mean?" Jenny asked, leaning forward on her chair.

"There is a tendency toward teasing and pranks in this place. Normally, that is fine. Timothy is a grown man and, although I know he dislikes it, he handles it himself. However, due to the type of abuse he underwent with Leavitt, we have to be careful about not…reinforcing what has been said."

"I'm not sure I understand you, Ducky."

"You have not listened to, nor have you read all of the sessions Timothy had with Leavitt. Imagine if you can that for the space of a month, you were told over and over again that not only is it your fault that innocent people died, but also that those about whom you care the most, that they would be better off had you died. Imagine being told over and over again that your choice to live was selfish and wrong, that everything bad that has happened has been a simple execution of justice." Ducky looked from Jenny to Gibbs and saw in their faces that they understood what he meant now…all too well. "_That_ is what Timothy has to work through. Although he now knows the reason for his abuse, dismissing that abuse will be difficult and jokes about how he is not pulling his weight or how he is lazy or whatever will only serve to reinforce what Leavitt said and to further destabilize his own self-image."

There was a kind of horrified silence at the end of Ducky's speech. He knew he had gotten through to them.

"I'm not saying that we need to handle him with so-called 'kid gloves'. Timothy is an adult and can take some teasing. I'm just suggesting that we all think twice before talking to him that way."

"Yes, Ducky, I understand," Jenny said quietly. "I'll talk to him when he gets here. Do you want to meet with him more often? The requisite therapy sessions are fine, but they can be increased if you think it necessary."

"I'll make a decision when I meet with him this evening."

"Very well. Is that all, Ducky?"

"Yes, that's all for now." Ducky stood and walked toward the door.

"Ducky?" Jenny said from behind him.

"Yes?" He turned back.

"Can McGee make it back? I need to know…as Director."

"Is it possible? Certainly. Probable? That depends on him. I know why you have to ask, and I see no reason to cut him loose."

Jenny looked relieved. "Thank you, Ducky."

"You're welcome, Director Shephard," Ducky said and then left.

"Has Leavitt accepted the deal?" Gibbs asked. He was still angry about it even though he knew it was better for Tim.

Jenny nodded but didn't look happy about it either. "Yes. He will plead guilty in exchange for forty years with the possibility for parole after twenty-five."

Gibbs just nodded and left.

--------------------------------------------------------------

It was funny how little he thought about his gun from day to day. It was just a part of his costume, his special agent uniform. He still remembered how foreign it had felt the first time he had held…and fired…a gun. It was only at a firing range, but holding that weapon, knowing that he held something in his hand that could conceivably kill another human being…it had been strange…and strangely exhilarating. He had felt so powerful. Now…it was just another tool.

Tim picked it up, weighing it in his hand. A weapon…not only against others but also against oneself…

The pounding on the door shook him out of his thoughts. He carefully stowed the gun and reached out for the door.

"Come on, Probie! Let's go!" Tony said as soon as the door was open.

"All right, all right," Tim said,

"Would you like to carpool today, McGee?" Ziva asked as they left the building.

Tim gave her a sidelong glance. "Sure," he said in surprise. He could always take Metro back later. It would be nice to have the company. As they reached the cars, Tim suddenly stopped. "You know, you guys don't have to be so nice. I mean, I…appreciate it and all, but you don't have to feel obligated to hang out with me or anything. I already nearly died twice. Even I can accept failure and move on." He smiled lamely.

Tony and Ziva managed weak smiles.

"I'm sorry. That was a bad joke," Tim into the ensuing silence. He cast around for something to get rid of the awkward tension. "So…who am I riding with?"

-------------------------------------------------------------------

When the three came into NCIS together, Ziva and Tony caught Gibbs' eye. He acknowledged the request and turned to Tim.

"McGee, Director Shephard wants to speak with you before you start work."

"Yes, Boss," Tim answered and mounted the stairs for what felt like the hundredth time.

"What?" Gibbs asked as soon as Tim was gone.

"McGee found this in his apartment last night," Ziva said, holding out the crumpled message.

Gibbs took it, noting its very damaged stated as he smoothed out the wrinkles. Once he did, he had to keep himself from completely losing it. Would this _never_ be _over_?

"How did McGee react?"

"Not very well," Tony answered. "But better than I thought after what you told us yesterday. He called me and I called Ziva."

"He was crying and I could barely get him to let go of it. I stayed for awhile and he fell asleep."

"How was he this morning?"

Tony and Ziva exchanged glances.

"He's _trying_, Boss," Tony said.

"But he is not himself yet," Ziva finished.

Gibbs nodded. "Okay. He's not going to be out in the field for a while. Ducky doesn't think it would be a good idea and he wants you two to be careful about how you go about teasing him. I don't think you should aim for nothing because you'll both just embarrass yourselves," Gibbs said, smiling wryly. "But in Ducky's words, think twice."

"Right," Tony said, looking uncomfortable. "Got it."

"Be sure that you do, DiNozzo," Gibbs said and then became all business. "Now, we have a case. The director will brief McGee on his end. Let's roll."

---------------------------------------------------------------

"Yes, Director, I understand," Tim said quickly…a little too quickly.

"Agent McGee, this is no slight on you."

"I know," Tim said.

"Agent Gibbs, Agent DiNozzo and Officer David are out investigating on site, but I would like you to start here. Once we get all the data, I want you to begin analyzing it. It originated from an alleged hacker we caught during the same time period as the theft."

"Yes, Director." Tim paused. "Director Shephard?"

"Yes, Agent McGee?"

"Is this…because of what I did?"

Jenny locked eyes with him. "Yes, McGee, it is…but in no way should you consider this a punishment. This is giving you time to get back what you lost." She smiled. "We _will_ be making full use of your talents while you are working at NCIS. Let me put it to you: do _you_ think you're ready to go out and deal with all the possibilities that could arise during an investigation?"

Tim swallowed hard as he thought of all the things that could, and _had_, gone wrong during his time at NCIS. "No, I don't."

"There's no shame in admitting it, McGee. In fact, it's better that you do so now rather than have us all discover it when it matters most."

"Yes, ma'am." Tim turned to leave.

"One more thing."

"Yes, ma'am?"

"Tim, I'm sorry."

Tim turned around. "Ma'am?"

"Gibbs may have rules about apologies, but I don't. The things that have been done to you should never have been able to occur. Leavitt should _never_ have been able to abuse you in that way. You should never have been put in a situation where you felt that you could not come to us for help. An apology can't fix things." She smiled sadly. "I know that…even better than you do, but you deserve to know that it is not your fault and that I, personally, am sorry that it ever happened."

Tim may as well have been wearing a mask for all the emotion he let show.

"Th-thank you, ma'am." He couldn't cover up the emotion in his voice though. She could see now that he was holding it back for fear of letting it all out…in front of his ultimate boss.

"That will be all, Agent McGee," Jenny said, giving him an exit.

"Yes, ma'am." Tim nearly fled from the office, past Cynthia's desk, to the elevator. He did not return to the bullpen. He was suddenly full of too much emotion to think clearly. He needed to get it out of his system. What he wanted to do was go and talk to Abby. She usually made him feel better, but he couldn't, not when she so obviously didn't know what to do with him. Tim couldn't deal with being ignored or, worse, loathed, by Abby. Instead, he went to the gym, changed his clothes and looked around at the equipment. He wasn't sure what he wanted to do…and then he saw it. It was exactly what he needed: a punching bag. He'd _been_ one for the last few months. It was time he got to do a little punching of his own. He grabbed a pair of gloves so that he could hit without holding back. His technique wasn't pretty, even after four years in NCIS, but Tim knew he could hit hard enough.

Tim approached the heavy bag. As he did so, he walked across the mat where Kate had sparred with him…three years and a lifetime ago. He had been so angry at her for her cheap shot. It was unfair and not what he had deserved…and yet, he had liked Kate. She was like an older sister: Mean sometimes, but there when the chips were down. As he stared at the bag, he found himself wishing, for the first time in awhile, that Kate was there, like she had been there when Erin had been killed…but she wasn't. She was dead and she'd never come back. He'd never feel her comforting presence again. He took a swing at the bag and felt a small sense of satisfaction at the sound, the feeling of hitting something. There was something incredibly satisfying about physical exertion. He swung again and felt the recoil as he again made contact with the bag.

The rest of the sounds in the gym faded away as Tim began to punch the bag…over and over. As he continued, Smith's voice welled up in his head: _I thought about making it look like a suicide, you know, Agent McGee. I could have so easily. But I think this is better. You will be discovered here and you__ll be dead. Naked, covered in your own bile and dead_. He saw Smith's face, leaning over him, first when he was lying on the floor, then when he was helpless in the tub. He heard Dr. Leavitt's voice: _That's life, Tim. You'll always be scared_. He remembered every time Leavitt had punished him by forcing him to reenact his drowning. Again and again he swung at the bag, not even hearing the sound of the gloves hitting it, barely feeling the impact.

As his workout went on…and on, Tim remembered all the stupid things he'd done, the lies he'd told, the course of action he had chosen, the course of action he _should_ have chosen. He remembered what his father had said to him when he had first told his parents about what he had done. His dad always had a quote ready for any situation. Somehow, even though Tim had never told him everything, he had known what caused the most pain. He remembered the quote, by Oscar Wilde: _I have said to you to speak the truth is a painful thing. To be forced to tell lies is much worse._ He hated lying…oh, how he hated lying. There were times when it was needed…like when Ziva had been on the run from the Iranians, but he had always felt that there was rarely a good reason to lie. He wished he could take back the lies. He swung at the bag again…again…again…

Even with the lies, the idiocy, for which he wasn't sure he could ever forgive himself, Smith wasn't right…another swing…Leavitt wasn't right…another swing. Together they had nearly destroyed him, much more thoroughly than he could have destroyed himself…another swing. _Why…why…why…_ The word became a mantra and with each repetition, he hit the bag, seeing the people who had killed, had maimed, tortured, seeing the _evil_ they had done…

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ducky stepped off the elevator and looked around the empty bullpen. He had been told that Tim would be working at his computer…but there was no one there.

"Dr. Mallard? Ducky?"

Ducky turned around at the soft voice. It wasn't hesitant, merely naturally soft.

"Agent Miller."

"Have you seen Agent Gibbs?"

"Not recently. Why?"

The elevator doors opened and Gibbs stepped off, followed by Ziva and Tony, both looking disgruntled.

"Stonewalling…an interesting word," Ziva said. "A remnant from medieval Europe, yes?"

"I don't know, Ziva, and I don't care. A warrant," Tony muttered. "We're only trying to find stolen Navy cargo. You'd think _we_ were the thieves."

"Agent Gibbs?" Lara Miller asked.

"What?" Gibbs said, abruptly.

"It's about Agent McGee," she said.

Tony and Ziva both stopped talking and Gibbs focused on the agent standing in front of him. Her appearance was average…in every sense of the word: average height, average build, average dress…average. She was one who would naturally blend in with any crowd…unless they were all supermodels.

"I'm not sure if it's a problem, but everyone knows what's been happening." At Gibbs' raised eyebrow, she added, "Scuttlebutt, sir."

"What is it, Agent Miller?"

"Well, he's been working out in the gym. He was there when I got there about an hour ago and he's still down there. He hasn't taken a single break that I've seen."

"What is he doing?"

"Well, it looks to me like he's trying to kill the punching bag," Lara said bluntly. "Some of the guys were saying that they wanted to take bets to see how long he'd go, but I thought he might be…well…not himself."

"Thank you, Agent Miller," Ducky said. "We'll take care of it."

"No problem. I like Agent McGee. I want him to get back to normal."

"Miller! Let's go!"

"Coming, sir!" Lara gave them a last nod and ran to catch up to the rest of her team.

Ducky and Gibbs looked at each other as if to say, _after you_ and walked toward the elevator, Ziva and Tony falling in behind without being asked.

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"What do you think he's seeing?" Gibbs asked as they watched Tim still swinging at the bag, although he was obviously tired. "The bag or someone else?"

"I doubt it's the bag," Tony said. "At least he put on gloves. His hands would be hamburger if he hadn't."

"Should we stop him, Gibbs? He looks about ready to stop on his own."

"If he's been going at it for more than an hour, he's probably not paying any attention and the only way he'll stop is if he passes out," Gibbs said.

Ziva began to approach Tim, but Gibbs held her back.

"I'll do it," he said and walked to Tim from the side so that he could see him coming. As he got closer he could see that Tim was soaked in sweat. He looked like he'd jumped into a pool…or had taken a bath with his clothes on.

"McGee?" Gibbs asked. There was no response, but he hadn't really expected one. He just wanted to see if he could get through to him that way. Tim, however, was intent only on the bag. Even though his arms were trembling with each swing, he was still managing a respectable amount of force. Then, Gibbs noticed that Tim's lips were moving, although no sound was coming out. "McGee, it's time to stop."

Tim still paid him no attention. Gibbs grabbed at his arm…and his grip slid down to the elbow because of the sweat.

"McGee!" Gibbs repeated and grabbed the glove this time. "It's time to stop."

Tim tried to swing once more and seemed surprised that he couldn't lift his arm. He looked down and Gibbs could see his mind slowly processing the new input. Breathing hard, he looked from his glove up to Gibbs' face. He couldn't seem to speak. He just stood, gasping, dripping. Everyone stood staring without moving for a few seconds. Then, Tim took a step and his knees buckled. Gibbs caught him around the waist, ignoring his sweaty clothes, and helped him to a bench. Tony grabbed a water bottle and brought it over. Ziva grabbed a towel as Gibbs began to remove the gloves. Tim just sat on the bench, looking dazed, submitting docilely to their ministrations.

"Timothy, who were you punching?" Ducky asked, as he checked his pulse rate.

Tim gasped for air and then said, "Everyone."

Ducky chuckled. "No wonder you were at it for so long. I think you should take on the world in smaller chunks, my boy."

"Next…time," Tim said, still panting.

"All things considered, Timothy, I think I'd prefer that there not _be_ a next time."

Tim's breathing began to even out. "I'm…inclined to agree, Ducky," Tim said. He looked at the team. "You back already?"

"We've been gone for two hours, Probie," Tony said.

Tim stared at his sweaty, chafed hands and gave that due consideration. Then, he looked up at Tony once more and said, "Oops." He still looked more than a little bemused and it was obvious that he wasn't entirely there at the moment. Tony held out the water bottle, but he ended up having to hold to Tim's mouth because his arms were so weak that he couldn't hold it up himself.

After a few moments, Tim looked at Gibbs who was essentially holding him upright. "Sorry, Boss."

"For what, McGee?"

"I'm getting you all sweaty."

Gibbs looked at his own clothes. Yes, it was very true. "That doesn't matter, McGee."

"Okay."

"You think you can make it to the showers?"

"Sure," Tim said. He stood up, took a step and then staggered into Tony who pushed him back onto the bench. "Sorry," he said again. "My legs are all wobbly."

"What brought you down here, McGee?"

Tim took another deep breath and stared at his hands. "I was…I just needed to get it out."

"Get what out?"

"I was mad."

"At whom?" Ducky asked.

"Smith…Leavitt…Ari…" Tim paused and then whispered, almost inaudibly, "…Abby…"

"Why Abby?" Ducky asked gently.

"I want to talk to her, to…say I'm sorry, but I can't…not until she's ready. I can't apologize if she won't listen."

"That's true."

"I just needed to get it out," Tim said again. Then, he repeated the question he had asked Tony the night before. "Why are they doing this to me? Wasn't killing me enough?"

"For some people, it's never enough."

None of them noticed when Ziva slipped away.

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"Abby!" Ziva called as she walked into the lab.

"Ziva!" Abby said and then looked behind her…when no one else came, her face fell. "What is it?"

"Why have you not talked to McGee?"

"He won't come down and see me!" Abby protested.

Ziva rolled her eyes. "Abby, _you_ have been ignoring _him_. Why would he come down when you have not acknowledged his presence?"

"He's supposed to come down. He _always_ comes down."

Ziva grabbed Abby by the shoulders and shook her a little. "Abby, you are acting like a child. You are a grown woman. You need to talk to McGee. He is afraid to speak to you because he does not wish to be ignored again. Do you not understand what has happened to him?"

Abby pulled out of Ziva's grip and turned back to her computer.

"Abby, you heard what Leavitt did. You know why. Did you see McGee's face when _he_ found out why?"

"No," Abby whispered.

"Of course you did not. You were not _there_…and McGee noticed. He cares for you, Abby. You are his friend…or you _were_ his friend."

Abby spun back around. "I _am_ his friend."

"You are not acting like a friend," Ziva said. "You are not treating McGee like a friend. You are treating him as if you wish you did not know him. If that is not the case, then I suggest that you figure out _what_ you want."

When Abby didn't respond, Ziva looked at her with a measure of contempt. "Grow up, Abby. Not everything is about you." With those cutting words, Ziva walked out of the lab, leaving Abby in tears.


	42. Chapter 42

**Chapter 42**

Ziva didn't return to the gym. She thought about it, but she knew that Tim would be embarrassed, and as tempting as it was to go down and suggest that she help him shower, she knew also that Tim was not ready for those kinds of jokes yet. So, she decided to return to the bullpen and calm herself down. Perhaps she should not have been so blunt, but Abby was being tiresome…and Tim was the one paying the price for it. Ziva was tired of Tim paying the price. He had paid too much already. The photo Smith had left behind was still sitting on her desk. She decided to log it away. Even though Smith was dead and the case was over, this was evidence…and if Tim didn't have to see it again, so much the better.

A few minutes later, the elevator doors opened, and Abby came into the bullpen. Her eyes were red, but she was not crying at the moment. Ziva chose not to acknowledge her presence.

"Ziva?" Abby asked, almost in a whisper.

"What, Abby?" Ziva responded, not looking up.

"Where's Tim?"

"Down in the gym. He wore himself out. Ducky, Gibbs and Tony are with him."

"Oh…what was he doing?"

"Punching a bag…because he couldn't talk to anyone," Ziva said, remorselessly.

"Oh," Abby said again. She noticed the photo laying on the desk. "What's that?"

Ziva looked at it. "A gift from Smith to McGee. He hid it in McGee's apartment and he found it last night."

"How did you know about it?"

"McGee called Tony and Tony called me." Ziva could tell that Abby wanted to ask why no one had called her, but she didn't. "I went to McGee's apartment and stayed with him for awhile."

"Would you let him know that I'm…looking for him?" Abby asked, her voice still soft.

"Yes, Abby, I will do that…if you're sure that you are."

"I'm sure."

"Very well. I will let him know."

"Thanks."

Ziva looked up only when she heard the elevator doors close once more. She hoped that Abby was going to actually _talk_ to Tim and not simply tell him that she didn't want to be friends anymore. It was her choice, of course, and Tim deserved to know, but Ziva couldn't help imagining the look on Tim's face if Abby rejected him…permanently. It would be the final blow.

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"Are you sure you're okay, Probie?" Tony asked, looking toward the showers. Out of consideration for Tim's…self-consciousness, he had remained by the lockers.

Tim was standing tiredly under the spray from the shower, not wanting to move. His arms were so heavy. He couldn't believe he'd been hitting that bag for over an hour. At least he was standing again. He shuddered at the idea of someone actually having to _help_ him shower.It didn't bear thinking about.

"I'm fine…for the fifth time!" he shouted back. Tony would keep asking until he came out, Tim knew; so he turned off the water, satisfied that he had removed all the sweat from his body. As he began to dry off, he was a little ashamed that they had all seen him in such a state. It had started so well, too. He was just getting rid of some of the excess emotions roiling around in his skull. Once he had started, though, it was impossible to stop. He just had to keep punching…and punching. Part of him had been hoping for someone, he refused to think about Kate again, to stop him. When Gibbs had held his glove, he had suddenly realized how tired he was, how much energy he'd been expending, how strange he felt to be nearly killing himself trying to beat all the anger and depression out of him. No one had showed any measure of discomfort, he noticed. They had all just helped him. All except Abby again…He wished that he could take back what he had said to her. He didn't remember the exact words, that time right after he had awakened in the hospital was a wash of irrational anger and words spoken without thought. It must have been bad though because Abby had neither come to see him nor had she spoken to him since then.

He didn't blame Abby. Whatever he had said, his emotions had been clear enough to him. He had truly hated her in that moment…as he had hated Gibbs and his parents and Tony and Ziva and _anyone_ who tried to keep him alive.

"Probie?"

Tim rolled his eyes at Tony's question. "Coming, Tony. Don't you have work to do?"

"Not until we get a search warrant."

"How long will that be?" Tim didn't try to keep the hope out of his voice. He stepped out of the shower and headed to his locker. Tony was sitting casually on the bench.

"You know you love me, Probie," Tony said, teasing.

Tim rolled his eyes again. "Right, and you'll never give me a hard time again, right?"

Tony grinned, but Tim noticed a hint of concern in his eyes. "Tony, I'm not going to break. I promise. You don't have to worry so much."

Tony looked around, but the locker room was empty for the moment. "You almost did. You try and tell me that you weren't on the verge when you called."

Tim opened his locker to get out his clothes. When he couldn't see Tony anymore, he said, "I was." He laughed softly. "I was so close that I dialed the wrong number. I had asked Gibbs for help before. I didn't want to bother anyone else…but I hit your number instead of his. I almost hung up, you know."

Tony stared at the open locker hiding Tim's face. He hadn't expected _that_. He had been surprised that Tim had called him, but he hadn't expected it to be a mistake.

"Why didn't you hang up?"

"Because…you were there, and even through my…I knew I needed someone to be there. I didn't think I could hang up and do it again."

Tony couldn't think of anything to say, and Tim redressed in silence. When he had covered himself in his usual garb, he looked normal. One would think that this was the computer geek back again…until you saw his eyes. Tim's green eyes, usually so alive with interest, with a kind of child-like excitement for everything that happened at NCIS, now pulsed with emotions that he shouldn't be feeling. The lines, whose absence Tony and Ziva had noticed in Luray, now seemed to have a permanent place on Tim's face. The strain of the past few months had changed him.

"Tony?" Tim said, closing his locker and looking Tony full in the face.

"Yeah, McGee?"

"Can I do it?"

"Do what?"

Tim's hands spread out in a strange helpless spasm. "Get…back to normal…is it even possible?"

Tony shifted uncomfortably under the intensity of Tim's pleading gaze. "I'm no shrink, McGee."

"Tony…please?" Tim begged. "Do you think I can?"

"Back to how you were? No, I don't think so, McGee," Tony said, serious now. "I don't think anyone could…unless you have somehow become Superman and can time travel."

Tim nodded and dropped his gaze, hiding the tormented eyes. He started to walk past Tony.

"…that doesn't have be a bad thing, McGee," Tony said.

Tim stopped and looked at him again. "I don't want to be like this, Tony," he whispered. "I don't want to…think twice before I turn on a faucet, wonder if I'm going lose it again and shoot myself in the head, wake up in the morning and wonder if I'm going to feel…anything besides fear. I'm tired of being afraid and angry and…cold." Tim started to walk away again, but this time, Tony stopped him.

"McGee…that's not what I meant."

"What _did_ you mean, then?" Tim asked. It was painful to see the hopeless hope in his eyes. He so desperately wanted to believe that there was something good to look forward to…he just couldn't see it.

"I meant that you can't magically become the same person you were, but…" Tony had to stop. It was too easy to try and ease the tension by making a joke. This was too serious for that, and it took effort on his part…and he couldn't keep it all out. "…you can get better…you can become a…better model, an upgrade," he said.

He was rewarded for his comparison by the slightest brightening in Tim's eyes. Tony slung an arm around Tim's shoulders and led him back to the elevator. They rode back to the bullpen together and as they separated, Tony clapped Tim on the back and said, "You'll make it, McGee."

His words made another slight brightening in Tim's eyes…which then darkened with worry when Ziva addressed him.

"McGee, Abby was looking for you. She would like to talk to you."

Tim couldn't decide if that made him happy or not. He looked over at Gibbs, asking…or maybe begging for a reason not to go down. Gibbs didn't speak in reply to the silent request. He just jerked his head toward the elevator. Tim nodded and got on.

"Is this a good thing or a bad thing, Ziva?" Tony asked.

"I do not know for certain…but it cannot be worse than it has been."

Gibbs spoke softly into the silence. "The warrant came through. Let's go."

They left together, feeling the strange disconnect at realizing the fact that Tim was there and yet not really with them.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The lab was quiet. No music. Tim walked in, still feeling the exhaustion hovering around the edges, blunting the emotions in his head. It was kind of nice that way.

"Abby?" he said, looking around for her, not seeing her at all. Maybe she wasn't there.

"I'm in here, Tim." Abby's voice, unnaturally soft and slow, came from her office. Tim walked that way and saw her, sitting at her desk, her tear-streaked face illuminated by the aromatherapy candles flickering away

"What's wrong, Abby?" Tim asked, unconsciously modulating his own voice. It was like he was at a funeral.

"Nothing…everything…I don't know…" Abby said and shook her head in despair, shaking more tears loose.

Tim walked a few steps closer. "Is it because of me?" he asked.

Abby whirled away from him and her motion was like a slap in the face. Tim had to take a deep breath to keep himself from…screaming? Crying? He wasn't sure, but there was some sort of emotional overload inside him. He had to get away from this. It was too much. He couldn't deal with Abby…with whatever was wrong. He could barely keep himself in check at the moment. He turned and started to leave.

"Wait! Tim, don't go!" Abby said, from behind him. He turned back, albeit reluctantly.

"What, Abby?"

Abby stared at him in silence, and Tim felt himself getting frustrated again.

"I…" she began and stopped.

Tim just stared, waiting.

More tears leaked from Abby's eyes. "I don't know how to talk to you anymore, Tim."

There was a moment where Tim just felt the world stop. He blinked and nodded. "Okay." Then, he turned to leave again.

"Where are you going?" Abby asked.

Tim stopped at the door and had to put his hand on the frame to keep himself from continuing to walk away.

"Tim…I wasn't done."

Tim turned around and he saw the momentary recoiling in Abby's eyes as they met his own. She didn't speak again.

"Abby…" he said and heard his own voice shaking. He clenched his fists, trying to keep the emotions at bay. "Abby…" he said again. "…I'm sorry. I hurt you, and I'm sorry. Like so many other things I've done, I wish I could take it back…but I can't…and…and I guess you can't forget it. I understand. It's not your fault."

Tim turned around quickly and walked out of the office. His view began to blur as tears welled up in his eyes. It looked like there were some things that would never be the same. His listened for Abby's voice telling him to come back again, but it didn't come…another blow. He walked to the elevator and pushed the button. Work…he needed to work. Something…anything to take his mind off this awful development. Abby had been his first friend at NCIS, his best friend…and he had destroyed that. He stepped onto the elevator and heard the roaring in his ears again. He stared blankly at the back wall…he didn't hear anyone get on. The first inkling he had of…anything…was the jolting that signalled his arrival at Gibbs' office.

He didn't turn around. He seemed to have lost the ability to move. If he tried to speak or anything else, he would lose it completely, and if Abby had something to say to him, he didn't want her to feel guilty about his current weakness. Guilt was far too destructive an emotion.

Then…he felt a hand on his clenched fist. The tears came nearer and he was seconds away from letting them go.

"Tim…" Abby's voice only brought the tears closer.

He wasn't even breathing. Doubt was creeping in again, teasing him with thoughts about everything he had done wrong.

"…I had all this planned out. I even wrote it down," Abby said from behind him. Her hand played lightly over his fingers. "And then…you came in and I forgot it all. It was such a good speech, too."

Tim could barely hear her. He was mostly conscious of her hand on his.

She sniffed loudly. "Ziva was right. I've been acting like a baby. I've been acting like just because you're different, that's reason enough for me to act all offended. I've been stupid, Tim. I was hurt. I'll admit that, but it wasn't really you talking to me. …but even if it was…" Abby turned Tim around. He wouldn't look at her. He didn't want to see the expression in her eyes again. She forced him to look at her. "…even if it _was_ you…what kind of friend would I be if I didn't understand why you acted like you did? What kind of friend would I be if I didn't forgive you?"

Tim looked in her eyes. They were clear. He couldn't hold back his own tears anymore. He started to cry.

"I'm sorry, Abby. I'm so sorry," he said.

Abby finally hugged him tightly. "No, Tim. You apologized already. You don't have to again. _I'm_ sorry for ignoring you. It was wrong of me."

"I feel like…like I keep destroying things…just by being here…"

Abby tightened her arms around him. "No, Tim. You haven't. You haven't ruined anything. I promise. I promise."

Tim cried harder and rested his head on her shoulder. After a few minutes, his tears ebbed.

"Was that your speech?" he asked, haltingly.

"No. My speech was much more eloquent, worthy of publication," Abby said, swallowing her own tears. "Maybe I'll let you read it some time."

Tim finally straightened. "I have to get to work. I haven't done anything today," he said.

"Well…if you want to work in the lab…you can," Abby said.

"I'll keep that in mind."

Abby turned around and flipped the switch, sending the elevator on its way back up to the bullpen. She let him off with a smile and went back down to her domain. Tim walked to his desk and sat down, trembling. Today wasn't even half over yet and he felt completely exhausted. Still, he was here to work, not sleep. So, he pulled up the data from the theft and began to correlate it with the hacker's work.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Ducky watched Tim working from above him. It was hard to just watch. He was glad that Abby and Tim had finally talked…and from the looks of things had patched up their friendship, but Tim didn't seem _happy_ about it…just relieved. It was almost as though happiness had become a foreign emotion…or possibly one he still felt he didn't deserve. Well…that's what therapy was for.

"Well, Ducky?" Jenny asked from behind him. "What do you think, now?"

"I'm still of the same opinion as I was before. Is the work he is doing at this moment time sensitive?"

"Marginally. Why?"

"I'd like to speak to him now, rather than this evening."

"Go right ahead. I know that all the conference rooms are full, though." She stopped and considered. "It's almost lunchtime. You can use my office."

"Are you certain?" Ducky asked in surprise.

"Yes," Jenny said firmly. "There's no reason that you should have to cram yourselves into one of the smaller rooms and I highly doubt that Autopsy has suddenly become friendly and inviting."

"It depends on your point of view, my dear…but I concede the point. Tell me, do you still keep it well-stocked?"

Jenny laughed. "No indulging during business hours, Ducky."

"It was a thought," Ducky replied and headed down the steps while Jenny went to inform Cynthia and gather her things.

Tim seemed almost in a trance as he worked through the material he'd been given. Ducky was always impressed by his work, but now, there was an added edge to it, similar to his intensity when pummeling the punching bag.

"Timothy?" Ducky touched his arm gently.

Tim jumped and looked at Ducky. "Ducky! Hi! Have you been here long?"

"No, I just got here," Ducky said with a trace of amusement. "I cleared it with Director Shephard. Would you mind having our session now?"

"But I'm working."

"Yes, I know. Jennifer says that there is nothing that cannot wait. However, it is your choice."

Tim looked back at his monitor obviously deciding how he felt. Then, he looked back at Ducky. "Okay. Where?"

"The director's office. Our regular meeting place is in use at the moment; so she offered."

"Uh…okay." Tim stood and followed Ducky, a little hesitantly up the stairs.

"I've made a note not to put any calls through, and no one will be getting in, Dr. Mallard," Cynthia said.

"Wonderful! Thank you, Cynthia."

"McGee, you can take an extra swing at the bag for me next time, okay?" Cynthia added, smiling.

Tim smiled back. "I'll do that. Anyone you have in mind?"

"No, just a general whack should do it."

"I'll put you on the list," Tim said and then followed Ducky into the office. She settled back into her routine, but she couldn't suppress the feeling of concern. That had been too forced, even for Tim.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

"So…Timothy, do you want to tell me what happened in the gym?"

"You saw it, Ducky. I told you before."

"Nothing you want to add then?"

Tim looked around the office. It seemed strange to be talking like this in here…and yet, he'd spent so much time in the office in the last little while that he found himself noticing things he hadn't before…like Jenny's desk. It was definitely well-organized. She had a reputation to maintain, but there were little quirky things…like a small silver four-leaf clover sitting on one corner of the desk. No one would notice it unless they'd had time to stare…he had.

"Timothy?"

"I felt…overloaded, Ducky. I wasn't just mad." Tim looked at the clover again. He liked seeing it there. It made the office somehow less imposing. "It's everything. Ducky, it's all still there. I know I _shouldn't_ feel that way. I know that Leavitt was wrong, but…" He looked back at Ducky. "…but I still _do_."

"Knowing and believing what you know are two different things."

"So…when will they become the same?"

"That's up to you. If it makes you feel any better, _I_ am much encouraged."

"Why?" Tim asked. "Last night, I nearly had a meltdown, just from finding a photograph. This morning, I tried to murder a punching bag."

"But you did _not_ have a meltdown, Timothy. You asked for help. And instead of hurting yourself or anyone else, you took out your frustrations on an inanimate object. You went too far, yes, but you started out well."

"It didn't end well," Tim muttered.

"Take the time to see the good things, Timothy. _That_ is what will help. You spoke with Abby?"

"Yes," Tim said and he smiled…_almost_ looking happy.

"And yet you don't look really happy."

Tim's smiled faded a little. "I can't forget all the other things, Ducky. I can't forget that I tried to commit suicide, that my therapist was working with the man who almost killed me, that I committed a crime. Unless you have some way of giving me selective amnesia…"

"It's okay to be happy, Timothy," Ducky said, breaking into the monologue.

He was surprised when Tim seemed so affected by that statement.

"What is it?"

"Ziva…she said that to me, too, during my suspension…she wanted me to go out and have fun."

"Did you?"

"Yes…that was the day before Dr. Leavitt started…"

"You are still allowed to be happy."

"It almost doesn't seem possible, Ducky." Tim stood up and walked to the window. He wondered how often Jenny stood here and looked on the Yard. "Even with the bag today…the first time I hit it, I was thinking of…"

"Of what?"

"Of Kate…how much…I still miss her."

Ducky smiled. "That doesn't have to be only sad, you know. You can be happy and remember the good times as well. Surely, you don't think that Caitlin would have wanted you to remember her only with sadness."

"No…I remember…after she died…I saw her in…"

"Where?"

"In the filing cabinet. She asked me to come down and see her." Tim smiled unexpectedly. "I did. By myself. I saw her. I wish she was still here."

"So…Caitlin was the first swing? What were the others?"

"Just like I told you…Ari and Smith and Leavitt…and me…I can't take it back, Ducky. I know that, but…what they did wasn't right."

"No, it wasn't."

"What I did was wrong, too."

"Yes, Timothy, it was."

Tim nodded and turned around. He looked at the clover again. He wondered if Jenny looked at it as often as he did, now that he knew it was there. It brought another small smile to his face. Ducky followed his gaze and smiled.

"You've seen it, have you?"

Tim looked up. "You've seen it, too?"

"Of course."

"What is it there for?"

"You'd have to ask the Director that question."

Tim could not picture himself asking Jenny such a personal question, but he smiled again.

"How did you end your chapter, Timothy?"

"What?"

"_Rock Hollow_. How did you finish the chapter?"

"Cliffhanger."

"Have you worked on it since you did that?"

"No."

"I wouldn't leave it too long if I were you. It will only make finishing it more difficult."

"You're probably right."

"You still have a month and a half left on your probation."

"Yes," Tim said. He looked at Ducky earnestly. "Do you think I'll be ready by then?"

"I don't know. It's up to you more than me. I cannot force you to do anything."

Tim let out a cynical laugh. "Can't you?"

Ducky looked at Tim very sternly. "Timothy, do you honestly believe that I would use my position to manipulate you against your will?"

Tim looked back at the clover. It wasn't only silver, he noticed now. The edges were green.

"No," he whispered.

"Truly?"

"No. I don't want to believe that. I want to trust you."

"Do you?"

"I'm trying to, Ducky. I really am."

Ducky dropped the tone. "Then, that's the only time we need to address the issue."

"Just like that?" Tim asked in surprise.

"Timothy, _I_ trust _you_ to be honest. You said you are trying. I can't ask more than that."

"You're better than I am."

"I have not been abused and attacked. It's easier that way," Ducky observed. "Why don't you come back and sit down? "

Tim did so, settling himself on the chair and thinking hard about what Ducky had said. Ducky suddenly launched into one of his long-winded stories, this time about the first time he'd driven a car. How this related to Tim's therapy, he had no idea, but he couldn't help being…almost happy to hear Ducky's stories again. He still hesitated to describe himself as happy.

"…and then, there was a hedge along the road and I…"

What _would_ it take? Could he be happy again? How would he know? Would he dare? It was so easy to just say that not being depressed was enough…but it wasn't. He couldn't be satisfied just with that. He didn't _want_ to be satisfied with being content. He wanted to feel happy and safe…and warm again.

"…so, that just goes to show you that you can't always assume that…" Ducky watched Tim carefully. He was listening…but only just. He was thinking…which was the point. Ducky had been trying to get him to think for a while now. Happy thoughts? Perhaps not yet…but Ducky was more convinced than ever that it was possible. When Tim left an hour later, Ducky watched him take another secret look at the clover on Jenny's desk and smile to himself. _Of such small things happiness is made._


	43. Chapter 43

**Chapter 43**

_Tuesday afternoon…_

As Abby headed back into NCIS following her lunch break, she looked over toward the river and saw a solitary figure standing motionless on the dock. She hesitated. Although she had said that she wanted to be friends…which was true, she did…it was still hard when Tim was so different. He just seemed to exude this despairing aura, even when he smiled. She hadn't seen him yet today. He had come down on Monday, but they could both feel the awkward tension, and he hadn't been back.

Abby stared at Tim as he continued to stand without moving. It was pretty cold and a chilly gust of wind made Abby shiver. She wondered how long he'd been standing out there. She also wondered why it was that she felt so awkward around Tim. It wasn't as though she'd never known people who had problems before…just look at the team, a bundle of private problems. Perhaps that was why. Tim had always been this breath of normalcy within the chaotic mess of NCIS…now, he wasn't. Now, he was something else, a sure sign that even the best people can be torn apart…and it wasn't fair. It was completely unfair that someone like Tim should be ruined in such a way. Abby squared her shoulders. She couldn't leave him out there like that. He looked so…alone…separate…bereft. That wasn't right. She strode across the street and came up beside him.

Tim was bundled up against the cold, his hands in his pockets, a scarf around his neck. He was even wearing a hat. He had come out here intentionally, then. That was a small relief. Abby came up beside him and stood silently.

"Abby…" Tim said, not taking his eyes off the river. There was an odd timber to his voice. She wasn't sure what it was, but it was a little disturbing.

"What?"

"Have you ever thought about it?" he asked.

"About what?"

"Suicide."

Abby gulped. What if Tim was planning another attempt right now and she had interrupted him? Could she deal with it…again? What if he tried to jump into the river? What if…

"Have you, Abby?"

"No, Tim, I haven't," Abby said, worriedly.

Tim was silent, still looking at the river. When Abby didn't speak, he said, "It's your turn, Abby."

"My turn for what?"

A haunted smile crossed Tim's lips and Abby had to steel herself not to look away, even though he didn't see her.

"I asked you…now…you ask me."

"But I know the answer, Tim."

"Not the whole answer, Abby."

Abby swallowed. "Tim…what's this about?"

"Ask me, Abby," Tim said. He still hadn't looked at her.

Abby reached out to touch him, but stopped just short of his arm.

"Have you ever thought about suicide, Tim?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation. "You know what the next question has to be, Abby."

Abby nodded. "When?"

"The last time was this morning…at about four," Tim said, and Abby stifled a gasp. He didn't seem to notice. "I woke up. I had a nightmare. There was water…just like there always is…but this time…" Tim stopped speaking and Abby saw the movement in his pocket that signified his hands clenching into fists. "…this time…the water turned to blood. It was everywhere. I was drowning in blood. I woke up, crying, almost screaming. I was halfway into the living room before I realized what I was doing."

Almost by reflex, Abby grabbed Tim's arm. He finally tore his eyes from the river, but instead of looking at her, he looked at her hand, her red-gloved hand on his black coat.

"I stopped myself. I stood in the doorway for an hour, just breathing, just reminding myself that I _wanted_ to keep breathing." As if to prove his point, Tim took a long, slow, deep breath and let it out again. "I couldn't go back to sleep though. I couldn't even bring myself to lay down again. Every time I closed my eyes, I could see the blood. I don't even know whose blood it was supposed to be. Isn't that funny, Abby?"

Abby had never found anything _less_ funny.

"I don't even know who I'm feeling guilty for." Tim laughed, a short, hollow laugh. "I don't know if that's progress or regress." He looked back at the river without meeting Abby's gaze, and she suddenly understood why. Tim had remembered her reaction. It had hurt him, but he hadn't said a word. He had simply tried to make it easier on her by not looking at her directly. That was so like Tim that Abby nearly wanted to smile…but she couldn't because she now realized that, while Tim _had_ hurt her feelings in the depths of his own despair, she had hurt him much more by refusing to accept the changes, by refusing to see who he was. She was wounding him anew by making it seem as though she couldn't truly interact with him as he was…and he was supposed to be able to lean on her when he needed to.

Slowly, carefully, not wanting to hurt him again, Abby let go of his arm and slid her hands around his waist. It was not the desperate hug of Friday. It was a gently supporting hug of a friend. Tim's tension did not abate and with her newfound understanding, she knew why. Tim was afraid of letting go again.

Still, he didn't look at her, but he began speaking again. "When I showered this morning, I turned the water on without shaking. I turned it off without being afraid that I wouldn't be able to…but still…when I close my eyes, I can see the blood."

In her head, Abby was wishing that someone else would come by and help. She really didn't know what to do and she was afraid of doing it wrong.

"How long have you been out here, Tim?"

"The lunch hour is over?"

"Just about."

"About an hour."

"What have you been doing?"

"Breathing. You never really appreciate until you can't do it. Then…then, it becomes the most important thing in the world. Everything else fades away and all that you want to do is breathe."

"Tim…"

Tim almost seemed to have forgotten her as he continued to talk. "It's like everything in your head, everything you know, everyone you care about, everyone and everything you hate just disappears. All that's left is the desire to breathe…and it gets worse and worse the longer you can't. Then…right before you give up, right before you realize that you're never going to breathe again, everything comes flooding back, faster than the water that's filling your lungs and you wish…you wish that you could breathe again…not for the air, but so that you could make things right. The last thing I wanted to do was apologize…but then…" Tim laughed again. "I died."

"No, you didn't, Tim."

"Yes, Abby, I did. I didn't _stay_ dead, but I did die. I stopped breathing. My heart stopped beating. I didn't feel anything, not until that awful moment when the water started pouring out of my mouth."

"Awful?"

Tim moved his left hand out of his pocket and almost grabbed Abby's arm. Like she had, he stopped before actually touching her. Instead, his hand fell limply to his side. "There seemed to be no end to it, just water and more water…and I wanted to breathe again. I had a hope of being able to breathe and to be unable to inhale, to be…not in control of what my body was doing…it hurt more than that first breath did." He took another long slow breath and let it out slowly in a cloud of vapor. Abby shivered.

"Tim…aren't you cold?" she asked.

Another soft laugh, ironic this time. "I'm always cold, Abby."

"Well, I'm freezing. Why don't wego inside?"

"You can go. You don't have to stay," Tim said.

"Yes, I do. I can't leave you out here all alone."

Suddenly, Tim let out a shuddering sob, quickly muffled. He pulled away from Abby and looked upstream.

A week ago…no, four days ago, Abby would have let this action be an indication of how Tim felt about her. This time, she refused to give into that feeling.

"Tim, please, don't push me away, not when I'm refusing to leave." She reached out to touch him, but stopped when he hunched his shoulders.

"Abby…I…" Tim turned around, and she saw the same desolate, _jaded_ look she had seen before, but this time, she didn't flinch. That seemed to be enough to break down Tim's barriers again. "I can't seem to settle…on one…it's always the extremes. I'm furious or I'm afraid or I'm depressed. I can't seem to…"

Abby hugged him tightly and didn't let him pull away this time. "You don't have to yet, Tim." She felt him pull again, and she tightened her grip. "No, Tim. You don't. You don't have to. I don't expect it. No one does. It will take time, but you won't be like this forever."

One hand had been hanging by his side, the other crammed into his pocket, even when Abby had hugged him. Now, his free hand moved around her back and pulled her even closer. She was close enough to hear his nearly-inaudible whisper: _What if I am?_

"Please, Tim. Trust me. Even if you can't see it…trust me. I know you won't…because…" Abby stopped for a moment and analyzed what she was going to say next and she knew that she wouldn't be lying. "…because I can see the difference, Tim. I can see it already, and that's only in a week."

"I can't see it, Abby."

"That's why you have us," Abby said and smiled. "If it will help, I can follow you around and point out all the improvements. I'm sure Tony would be happy to be the announcer."

As she had hoped, Tim laughed. It was choked with tears, but he still laughed and it was such a welcome sound.

"See? There's one right now. I haven't heard you laugh in ages. I'll be Tony," she said and cleared her throat. "Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention! The Probie just chuckled! Gather closely…you might just hear this rare sound again!"

Tim laughed. He couldn't help it and Abby giggled in response.

"Now, Tim, I'm frozen. Let's go inside." Abby didn't let go of him, but she began to walk back toward the building. After a moment, Tim let out a helpless chuckle and followed without resisting.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Thursday afternoon…_

"I think that we can dismiss the hacker as being related to the robbery," Tim said.

"Why do you say that?"

"His pattern. It's not geared toward distraction _or_ toward the cargo manifests. This guy is just your average hacker, trying to see where he can get and how far he can go without…" Tim suddenly paused in his explanation, but cleared his throat and continued before anyone could ask him what was wrong. "…without getting caught." Tim noticed everyone's stares, but he valiantly plowed on, trying to sound as professional as he had been before. "At most, he may have been hired to hack into the Navy servers at the same time as someone else was hacking for info on the robbery, but just based on the data I was given, he's not our guy."

Jenny looked from Tim to Tony and Ziva. Because this had the potential to be embarrassing for the Navy, she was feeling the pressure from her superiors and was taking a personal interest in the case. She also wanted to see how Tim was adjusting. "You've interviewed him, Officer David. What do you think?"

Ziva nodded. "I agree. He is a silly boy who got in over his head. He knows nothing about the cargo and I doubt he knows anything of worth."

Tim interjected, "If he _was_ hired by someone, it might worth knowing who it was."

"Okay, McGee, you talk to him. Ziva, Tony, you go and interview the dock manager again."

"Me, Boss?" Tim asked. He sounded terrified at the thought.

"Yes, you, McGee. You're the computer expert. You speak his language. He'd be more likely to open up to you than he would to DiNozzo."

"Hey!" Tony protested.

Gibbs ignored Tony and focused on Tim. "If you feel like you're in over your head, just walk out."

Tim swallowed. "Are you sure, Boss?"

"Yes, McGee, I am."

Tim nodded, reluctantly. As he stood to walk to interrogation, he caught Jenny's eyes briefly. She was giving him a searching glance, seeing how he was faring…and for some reason, he remembered the clover on her desk. He smiled to himself at the secret he knew. He saw Jenny raise her eyebrows at the sudden shift in his expression and he quickly tamped down on the smile. There was no way he could explain why that clover brought him such a feeling of…satisfaction. It was enough though to give him the impetus to make it to interrogation. He didn't notice that Gibbs and Jenny had both followed him. He stopped at the door and took a deep breath. This was not what he had expected. Yes, he wanted to get back to his regular job but…what if he messed up again? Worse…what if he had another meltdown in front of the guy sitting in the room? It wasn't going to get any easier if he continued to stand there. Tim turned the doorknob and walked in.

Sitting at the table was…Tim almost laughed. Wallace Torgrim could be him from ten years ago. He was completely overwhelmed by what had just happened. He looked up and saw Tim when he stepped into the room and immediately he started talking.

"There's been some big mistake here. I didn't know anything about…anything! I just…"

"That was a pretty good hack," Tim interrupted. He sat down across from the younger man and continued, "It's too bad you'll never get a chance to do that again."

"What do you mean?"

"You've been implicated in the theft of Navy property."

"What? I never stole anything! I just…" He stopped.

Tim smiled, but he knew that Wallace wasn't really looking at him. "You just looked, right? You just had the satisfaction of knowing you had done it, right?"

For one disconcerting moment, Tim wondered if he had looked like that when he had been keeping secrets and he clenched his teeth tightly, not wanting to let out the moan he felt building in his chest. He pushed it down firmly and tried to focus.

"Right?" Tim asked, not sounding accusatory, just stating a fact…like Dr. Leavitt…_no_…

"Yeah," Wallace said, sounding, not traumatized, but resigned. He knew he was caught.

"But I just looked! I didn't take anything. That's not why I was doing it."

Tim allowed another smile to cross his face. "Never hacked the Navy before, have you?"

"No. I always wanted to try it."

"So…what made last week different?"

Finally, Wallace looked at Tim…and Tim had to struggle not to wince at the momentary shock that crossed his face when he looked Tim in the eye.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Is he going to make through this, Jethro?" Jenny asked as she watched Tim struggle.

Through the glass, the interview went on: _"I just…I guess I just wanted to see if I could do it."_

"I don't know. Your guess is as good as mine."

_"You made a quick jump from hacking the college servers to hacking the US Navy. Why?"_

_"Maybe I just wanted to do the big one?"_

They watched as Tim laughed. He laughed, but they could tell it was forced and that he didn't feel like laughing at all.

_"Wallace…do you understand how much troubleyou're in right now?"_

Tim seemed to hate what he was saying. It seemed to be making him ill.

_"You were caught hacking the Navy computers while a robbery was taking place! You're not just going to walk away from that! You can't! But if you don't tell the truth, you're going to be facing a lot more than just a fine or a couple ofnights. You're looking at a minimum of eight years in prison and a fine of up to $150,000."_

"What's wrong with him, Jethro?" Jenny asked.

"I don't know, Jen," Gibbs answered. Tim was obviously having trouble with what he was saying, even though he was saying all the right things.

Suddenly, Tim stood up and said softly, _"Think about it, Wallace. You have to make a decision about what you fear more."_ Then, he walked out of the room, almost ran. Gibbs turned and walked out into the hall, followed by Jenny. Tim was resting his head against the wall, pounding it with his right fist. He was not crying.

"What is it, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

Tim just breathed for a few seconds. He hit the wall once more and then his fingers spread out on the wall, pressing into it as if he get somehow walk through the wall and get away from whatever it was that was haunting him.

"It's just like him," Tim finally spat out. "Just like him and his…_lies_!"

"What?"

"I'm doing just what he did to me!"

Jenny caught on first. "No, you're not, McGee. You are quite clearly laying out exactly what he did and what he can stand to lose by it. You are not torturing him."

"I'm manipulating him! I'm trying to get him to believe me instead of whatever he's thinking!" Tim declared. "How am I any different?"

Jenny softened her tone. "Tim, you are asking questions of a man who broke the law, who may have been instrumental in helping others break the law. You are not trying to make him believe something about himself that is not true. He _did_ hack the Navy. He _was_ breaking in at the same time as the robbery took place. You aren't making up anything. He _does_ stand a good chance of going to prison. These things are all true. They're not made up. They're not so that you can tear him down. You are not the same as Leavitt."

Tim pushed himself away from the wall and looked at Jenny, afraid. "How do I tell?"

"You know, Tim. You already know. You're just letting your fear get in the way," Jenny said.

Tim ran his hands through his hair as he slowly began to calm down.

"Can you finish, McGee?" Gibbs asked a few minutes later.

Tim looked from Jenny to Gibbs. He didn't want to let them down…and somewhere inside of him was the feeling that if he let Leavitt dictate, even indirectly, what he did, he'd always be ruled by him…and then…Smith would have won.

"Yes. I can finish, Boss." Before they could ask if he was sure, he turned around and walked through the door. Gibbs and Jenny walked back to the observation room and watched Tim once more.

"I don't want to go to prison, Agent McGee," Wallace said.

Tim nodded and fought back the words that Leavitt had drummed into his head. "Then, we need your help. Someone hired you, right?"

"Not…_hired_…I mean…it wasn't about getting paid."

_It wasn't about the money,_ Tim thought. _That's what Leavitt said…_

"Then, what was it?" Tim asked, a harder edge in his voice.

Wallace obviously caught the change. "It was getting to the next level. You know what I mean, don't you? You're a hacker, too, aren't you?"

Tim gave one of his mirthless smiles. "Not illegally."

"These guys, they started talking up hacking into the military. I told them that it was too dangerous, but they kept going on and on about how cool it would be and the bragging rights and then they said that they would pay good money to see me do that. Who'd pass that up?"

Tim swallowed. "It looks like you should have."

Wallace deflated. "You're right."

Tim winced.

"What do I have to do?"

"Tell us who it was. Names, faces, any interactions you had with them. We'll cut a deal." Tim knew that he was on the edge again, but he was determined to see it through this time. "Everything works out and you'll more than likely be looking at a fine and probation tops."

Wallace looked at Tim and recoiled again. There was something very dark in the eyes of this agent. He didn't know what it was, but he was afraid of the idea of making him mad.

"Okay."

Tim stood up. "Good. We'll get the details settled. Wait here." He smiled again, without any humor and left the room, in better control than he had before. As soon as he was out in the hall, however, he sagged. Leavitt's words were too much inside him. He needed to either forget them or deal with them because he couldn't function this way.

"Well done, McGee," Gibbs said. "That's something we didn't have before. That's more than we knew."

Tim nodded and tried to feel happy about it, but he couldn't. It had been too draining for him to feel anything besides relief that he'd been able to finish.

Jenny reached out and put her hand on Tim's shoulder. "One step at time, Tim. This is just another step."

"Another step," Tim said. He wondered how many more there were.


	44. Chapter 44

**Chapter 44**

_Wednesday night…_

"Tony, I told you that I was not interested," Ziva said on her phone.

_"Come on, Zeevah! You don't even have to hang out with me. It's part of your education!"_ Tony wheedled.

There was a knock on Ziva's door and she walked over to it still talking. "I fail to see how this could possibly be a part of American education."

The knocking did not cease and Ziva was slightly concerned by it. She missed Tony's next words when she looked through her peephole and saw who was on the other side.

"Just a moment, Tony," she interrupted and opened the door. "Abby, what are you doing here?"

Abby didn't come inside. Instead, she pulled on Ziva's arm. "Come on, Ziva. I need your help. I can't do this myself."

"Do what, Abby?"

_"What's going on, Ziva?"_

Ziva ignored Tony for the moment. "I do not understand."

"You know how well Tim's been doing the past few days. He even went out with us on Saturday, but he called me…and I'm really worried now."

"Why?"

"He said…that it was his."

"What was his?"

"I don't know. He wouldn't say anything else. We were just talking on the phone. He wanted me to help him with his next chapter in his book. He wanted me to be there and we were talking about when I could come over. Then, he just…he stopped talking and I tried to get him to start again, but he just started saying 'it's mine' over and over. Then, he hung up. I tried to call back, but he wouldn't answer. If there's something wrong…" Abby didn't finish. She didn't need to.

"Tony, it looks as though something is wrong with McGee again. Abby and I are going over."

_"Should I come?"_

"Where _are_ you?" she asked and then she rolled her eyes as she grabbed her coat. "You are at that club, are you not? The one that you said was so close?"

There was an embarrassed silence.

Abby dragged Ziva out the door.

"For once, Tony, your silliness may actually be helpful. By all means, come," she said and then hung up.

Abby continued to pull Ziva along, and Ziva suddenly noticed it. She extricated her arm from Abby's grasp. "Abby, I am well able to find my own way."

"Ziva, I'm so worried! What if…?"

"That will not happen again. He said he would not."

"Yes…but…"

Ziva ignored her and looked at the hearse. She did not want to believe that Tim was in any actual physical danger, but she also could not stomach the idea of going to find out in a vehicle normally used to transport dead bodies. "We will take my car."

"Okay." Abby didn't seemed upset at the idea of leaving her hearse at Ziva's apartment. As they pulled up to Tim's place, Ziva looked over at Abby sitting stiffly beside her.

"Are you sure you would like to be here? It may not be pretty."

Abby leaned forward and looked up toward Tim's apartment. "I'm not going to flake out this time, Ziva."

"Good," Ziva said. She had been worried about the possibility of whatever problem Tim had being exacerbated by Abby's childish behavior. She got out of the car and noticed that Abby was a few seconds behind her. She didn't bother to wait. She just strode up to the building, up the stairs and knocked on Tim's door. There was no reply. There was no screaming, no crying, no sound at all coming from within. Just silence. Ziva tried the door…it was unlocked…

Abby suddenly burst past her into the apartment. Ziva grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back, putting her finger to her lips. "This feels wrong."

Abby whispered back, furiously, "Of _course_ it feels wrong. It _is_ wrong!"

Ziva shook her head and stepped inside, looking around carefully, taking in the strangely cavernous silence. Something that was somehow more disturbing, however, was the state of the room. It was clean…too clean. It looked almost sterile. The same objects were in it as had been 

before…and yet…there was a lived-in quality that homes usually had. It was missing from this space. This room was clean, orderly…obsessively so. For no reason that she could name, Ziva was afraid of the appearance of this room. She hesitated even to speak…as if she had just stepped into the home of the dead. Angrily, she shook away the thought. It was melodramatic and not useful.

"What's going on?" Tony asked, coming to the doorway; then, he fell prey to the same feeling Ziva had as he looked at the room. "What's going on?" he asked again, more softly.

Ziva shook her head. "McGee?" 

The room was too full of objects for there to be an echo. It wasn't large enough for an echo…and yet, it seemed as though there was an echo all the same. There was no answer.

"Maybe he's not here?" Tony asked.

The three of them stood in the doorway, wondering what to do, wondering _why_ they were wondering what to do. Then, Abby stepped forward. 

"Tim!" she shouted.

Still, there was no answer.

That shout seemed to break whatever spell was holding Tony and Ziva back and they all stepped inside, closing the door behind them. They spread out and began to look around. Every inch of the apartment was clean. There was nothing that was out of place. Out of curiosity, Tony opened the cupboards and drawers in the kitchen. They were painfully ordered and he had to fight the impulse to mess up the organization.

They didn't find Tim in the main room. He wasn't in his bedroom either…which was also clean and organized to the point of obsession.

…he was in the bathroom…staring at himself in the mirror…one hand hovering over the sink…the other gripping the edge of the sink with white knuckles…water dripping from the faucet…_drip…drip…drip_…onto one of his fingers and trickled down his hand…mixing with the blood which oozed from a small cut on his palm…a razor was on the floor…the only item out of place…besides the phone which also lay discarded on the floor…a wad of bloody toilet paper was in the garbage…but Tim…his eyes which always showed so much…they were empty…

Abby thought that the desolation had been the worst expression she'd ever seen in Tim's eyes, but this emptiness was ten times worse. …but he was alive…that was important.

"Tim?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

Tim didn't respond. He just stared into the mirror. He didn't seem panicked. He didn't seem afraid. His breathing was a bit shallow, but even. He was just…empty as if his essence had 

left his living body behind.

"Tim?" Abby said again.

"McGee, what is wrong?" Ziva asked.

Still nothing. Abby reached over and turned off the water. Then, she grabbed more toilet paper and mopped away the blood and water on his hand. Tim did not react. Then, she opened the drawer beside the sink and pulled out the box of bandaids. It was as neat and organized as the rest of the bathroom. Carefully, she bandaged the small cut, relieved that it wasn't worse and then put the bandaids away. Tim didn't move.

"Should we call someone?" Abby asked.

Ziva shook her head and shrugged. Then, unexpectedly, Tony reached around the two women and pried Tim's hand off the sink.

"Come on, Probie. Let's go," he said and pulled Tim away from the sink. Amazingly, Tim followed, his eyes still blank. Tony led him into his bedroom and gently pushed him down onto his bed. Tim did not resist. "Can you hear me, McGee?" he asked.

Nothing.

Tony watched Tim for a long time. Light-hearted and juvenile he might be, but there were times when he knew that more was needed. This was one of those times. It wasn't an accident that Tim was like this, and he failed to see how calling a bunch of strangers in would help Tim more than they could. True, they could call Ducky, but Tony wanted to see if they could help Tim out themselves. Call it pride, pride of place, if you like, but Tony knew that if worst came to worst, there were options. At this moment, they had time to figure out what was going on themselves.

"Okay," he said aloud, his eyes still on Tim, watching for any flicker of life. There was none. "Let's get to work."

"Work?" Abby said, incredulously. "What are you talking about, Tony?"

Tony didn't shift his gaze from Tim, but he spoke to Abby. "Something happened, Abby. Something happened while you were talking to McGee. We're investigators. We have all the evidence here. Let's figure out what happened. So…what do we have right away?"

Ziva cocked her head to the side at looked at Tony, appraising him…and his idea. "McGee has obviously spent a long time cleaning his apartment. I found no dust, no clutter. Even the books are alphabetized…although, this being McGee, that is probably normal."

"This is more than clean," Abby said. "It's like working in one of those labs where you have to go through decon just to get in. This must have taken _hours_."

"He was talking to you, Abby," Tony said. "Could you tell where he was?"

Abby thought back, trying not to let herself get distracted…and distraught by the motionless figure on the bed. "He wasn't in the bathroom. I'm sure of that."

"Okay, so he was either in the bedroom or in the main room. He was talking to you about his book. He wasn't typing?"

"No. Just talking."

Ziva interrupted. "Did it sound as though he was walking around while he was talking to you?"

Abby shook her head. 

"We have a razor on the floor…out of place," Tony said. "He obviously cut himself on it. Where did it come from?"

Ziva walked back into the bathroom and picked up the razor. Then, on a whim, she opened the drawers by the sink.

"It is not the same brand that he has in his drawer," she said, holding up the two.

Tony kept staring at Tim. He was trying to figure out what could have done this to him. It was not uncommon for people suffering from PTSD to have flashbacks and even an occasional bout of catatonia, but PTSD was usuallya long-term disorder and although this whole thing felt as though it had lasted forever, in reality, Tim's problems had probably been serious for just over a month.

"What did you say he said to you before he hung up?"

Abby shook her head and bit her lip as she looked at Tim again. "He just said…it's mine."

As she said the words, Tim's lips moved, forming the same words, although no sound came out. His eyes remained as blank as ever.

Tony stood and walked out into the main room. He looked around. _McGee was talking to Abby…about his book. He'd probably be looking at his typewriter. He's that kind of guy. So…he's right here. What is he doing? The place must already have been clean. There's no way he had enough time to do all this before. Maybe that was what he's been doing with his free nights. We aren't always around to see. Irrelevant. So…he's here._ Tony looked around and noticed a single book on the verge of falling to the floor.

"I found something out of place," Tony said.

Ziva and Abby both came running out.

"A book." He looked around again. Ziva and Abby did as well. Then, Ziva crouched beside the garbage can. A bloody piece of paper was shredded at the bottom. Carefully, she pulled out the pieces and ordered them on the desk. _A gift from me to you. You know what to do with it._

"I thought we searched everything," Ziva said angrily.

"We didn't pull every book off the shelf," Tony said, shaking his head. "Looks like we should have."

"Looks like we'll have to," Abby said. "Tim can't keep finding these things." 

"I was trying to get rid of him." 

They all turned around and saw Tim, leaning against the doorway, his eyes dull, but no longer empty, his voice full of exhaustion.

"What do you mean, Tim?" Abby asked. She both wanted to run to him and didn't. She wasn't sure what would be best to do in this case.

Tim didn't move from his place. Perhaps, he couldn't go any further. He gestured around the apartment. "I was trying to get rid of him. He was in here, for who knows how long. When I got back, when my family left, I realized that he'd really been _here_. He could have touched anything…sullied it. I just wanted to get rid of it, get rid of everything he'd done. I didn't want my life contaminated by him anymore."

"I can understand that, McGee," Tony said. He hadn't stood from where he was crouching on the floor.

Tim looked down at his hand and began massaging the bandaid. "I was talking to Abby and I looked down. There was a book out of place." Tim smiled. "It happens, you know? I pull a book off the shelf and put it back, but just missing where it should go. Like in a library." Still, no one moved. It was almost as though they were holding their breath waiting to hear what he had to say. "I wanted to be able to start over…I wanted everything to be…pristine. Nothing stays clean forever, but I thought I could at least start that way. So I bent over to get the book. There was a piece of paper inside." Tim laughed, but tears fell from his eyes as he did. Abby was still wondering what would be best to do. Ziva took a step toward him and stopped, also unsure. "I don't know why I didn't think of it possibly being from…from him again. It didn't even cross my mind. I thought it was just a piece of paper I'd left in it. I opened it…the razor fell into my hand. I held it in my hand and I saw…what he wrote."

Tim looked up and met Abby's glance. "And it's mine," he said. "I finally realized that it's mine."

"What's yours, Tim?" Abby asked.

"All this time I've been wondering, but it's my blood. I've been drowning in my own blood, Abby. All this time…why am I drowning in my own blood?"

"Tim…" Abby's eyes filled with tears. "Tim, that was just a dream. That's all. Just a dream."

Tim looked back down at his hand. Carefully, he pulled off the bandaid and watched as the blood slowly oozed out of the wound. He held out his hand. "But why is it mine? Why? Why not any of those people who died? Why not…him? Why me?" Tim began to cry. "Why am I drowning in my own blood?"

Before any of them could move any closer, Tim slid down the doorframe to the floor, holding his bleeding hand out.

Again, Tony surprised them when he stood, walked over and crouched down in front of Tim.

"McGee, it doesn't mean anything," he said. "Dreams don't have to mean anything. All it means is that it's becoming less of a memory and more of something you fear." Tony reached out and grabbed Tim's bleeding hand. "You're afraid of dying, aren't you?"

Tim was listening, but he was still crying. "But it's mine, Tony."

"Yes, but aren't you afraid of dying?"

Tim's head bobbed once. Tony decided to take that as a yes. 

"Of course you are. Who wouldn't be? Well…maybe not Superman or Wonder Woman or…Mr. Incredible." A tearful laugh from Tim. "But, McGee, you have a good reason to be afraid of it. That's okay, but you've faced it twice and you've _beaten_ it! That's something you can be proud of. You beat death…but more importantly, you're beating the people who tried to destroy your life, and look how hard they're trying." Tony wasn't sure if he was getting through. Tim was still crying; that probably explained the spur-of-the-moment decision Tony made. "So…McGee, you're going to stay with me until we can finish the decontamination."

Tim shook his head weakly.

"Yes, McGee. Just for a day or two. We may want to kill each other by the end of it, but you're not going to face another one of these things. I, for one, am tired of Smith having so much power when he's dead. So we're going to take away that power, got that, McGee?"

Tim's cries turned into sobs. Through them, they could just make out his words. "Please…yes."

"Okay. We'll get some of your clothes and things packed and then we'll go. Is that all right?"

Tim nodded again. He lifted his head and looked at his hand. "I'm still bleeding."

"Well, if you'd just leave the bandaid on," Tony said in a mock-lecturing tone. He grabbed Tim by the arm and pulled him up into a standing position. "Let's go." Together, the two of them walked into the bathroom to reapply a bandage.

Abby was finally spurred into action. "I'll pack some clothes for him. Do you mind, Tim?"

"No…"

Abby began to grab a few things, just his regular clothes. Ziva stirred herself to help and opened his drawer. It was full of t-shirts. She searched through them and then came upon one that made her laugh.

"What is it, Ziva?" Abby asked, desperate for something funny.

Ziva turned around with the t-shirt in her hand. It was a Superman t-shirt…only instead of an _S_, there was a _T_. Abby giggled.

"Oh, yes. He needs that one." She held out her hands for it and stuffed the shirt into the duffle bag. She put in a few work shirts to give Tim some choice and some pants and shoes. Ziva tossed some socks and boxers and a couple of his MIT shirts. In moments, the packing was done. Tim walked out of the bathroom, rebandaged but still pale. Abby wrapped her arms around him and whispered in his ear, "You're okay, Tim. Trust me. I'm still here."

Tim returned the hug. "Thanks."

"Okay, Probie, let's go."

Tim managed a tremulous smile at Ziva as she handed him the bag of clothes. When the two men had left, Abby plopped down on Tim's bed and began to cry herself. Ziva looked at her watch. The whole thing had taken less than an hour. Tim had broken down and been reassembled quite quickly. It had taken much longer the last time. He had even come out of his trance on his own.

"He's getting better, Abby," Ziva said, sitting beside her.

"Yeah, but…"

"I know, but he went almost a week without too many problems."

"But his apartment…"

"Yes, this is a bit disturbing, even with his explanation. We will have to discuss it with Ducky."

"That's not the worst thing though."

Ziva looked over at Abby. "What is?"

"What if he had found these during his suspension…when Dr. Leavitt was doing all those things to him?"

Ziva's mind, against her will, began to explore the possibilities. They were gruesome. 

"_That did not happen_, Abby."

"I know, but I keep thinking about it…and Tim's face when he said he was drowning in his blood," Abby said. 

Ziva put an arm around Abby. "You said it yourself, Abby. He will get better. It will just take time. Already, I can see that he is better than he was. And that will continue because _we_ will be there to help him."

Abby nodded vigorously.

"It is only ten o'clock. Would you like to start the decontamination now or wait until tomorrow?"

"Let's start now," Abby said.

Ziva nodded. "I think we should start with the books."

Suiting actions to words, she knelt down in front of the bookshelf and began to take the books off one by one, stacking them neatly. Abby knelt beside her and started on the next shelf, intent on finding anything else that Smith might have left.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

"McGee?" Tony asked.

Tim didn't respond. He had sat down on the seat and promptly closed his eyes, leaning his head against the window. Tony knew he wasn't asleep, but he couldn't get him to talk.

"McGee?"

Tim sighed and opened his eyes. He still didn't say anything.

"You need to make sure you tell Gibbs and Ducky about this tomorrow."

Still there was no response, but Tony was sure Tim could hear him.

"You should probably let Jenny know, too."

"Why?" Tim whispered.

"Because she's your boss, and she needs to know."

"How long will it be before she just gets fed up and kicks me out?"

"Never, McGee…well, unless you start table dancing or something like. Then, she'll probably…"

"Tony…not right now, okay?"

"Okay, McGee."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it. …Can I ask you a question?"

"Could I really stop you?"

Tony smiled. "Well, no, but you could refuse to answer."

"I might still, but go ahead."

"How long have you spent cleaning your apartment?"

"Every day this week so far. I was hoping to spend the whole time cleaning everything out and then with the start of another week, I could start over."

"Every day?"

"Yeah."

"Didn't you run out of things to clean? Your apartment isn't _that_ big."

Tim smiled. "Things get dirty again, Tony."

"Not _that_ dirty."

"I know."

Tony nodded.

They drove in silence for a while longer.

"But Leavitt's in my head and Smith is in my apartment. Everything feels…dirty."


	45. Chapter 45

**Chapter 45**

_Thursday morning…_

Tim woke up feeling…different. He couldn't decide if it was a _good_ different or a _bad_ different. Perhaps there was no difference…or maybe there was. He didn't feel he was a very good judge of that. Not opening his eyes, he tried to decide what it was that made him feel different. Then, it hit him…or rather a pillow hit him…in the face.

"Probie, wake up. If you think I'm going to tempt Gibbs' wrath for your lazy behind, you're dreaming."

_Oh, yeah. I'm at Tony's place_, he thought gamely. He had slept well at least. Of course, he'd been so exhausted by the time they'd arrived last night that he hadn't even protested when Tony had offered Tim his bed. He had simply fallen onto it. Now…as another pillow sailed onto him…he felt a little guilty about it. Just because his head was an unfriendly locale at the moment, didn't mean that he was incapable of sleeping on a couch.

"Probie…I swear if you don't get up in the next ten seconds, I'm going to drag you to NCIS in your boxers."

_On second thought, let Tony sleep on the couch._

"McGee, it's nearly six-thirty. It takes a while to get to NCIS…so move it!"

That was enough to force Tim to open his eyes and sit up quickly. He looked at himself and noted that he was still dressed…but rather rumpled. He got enough glances at work as it was, he couldn't go looking like he'd…well, slept in his clothes. Tony was standing with a third pillow in his hand, dressed and ready to go.

"Just kidding, McGeek. It's only six."

Tim rolled his eyes. "You could have just told me, Tony."

"I wasn't sure what it would take to get you going."

Tim stood and looked around for his bag. He didn't remember carrying it inside…_where did it go?_

"Your bag's in the bathroom," Tony said, pointing. "Go."

Tim walked into the bathroom and looked at the bag. He managed to pull out some clothes and his various toiletries before he suddenly remembered the reason for being at Tony's apartment: another message. _Will this ever really be over?_ he wondered as he turned on the shower, noting with relief that his hand wasn't shaking. He had a terrible moment after he finished showering where he couldn't make his hand move toward the faucet to turn off the water, but he forced his hand to move. In the end, it did as he told it to and the water went off. He dried off and got dressed without any trouble. Then…

"Ow!"

"Hurt yourself, McGee?" Tony's light-hearted question came through the door.

"No," Tim said in a calm voice, even as his hand started shaking. "I just banged my hand on the sink. Do you have bandaids?"

"Somewhere in there."

Tim began to look through Tony's drawers and cupboards, which were surprisingly organized. Tim would have pegged him for the type that never cleaned the bathroom and just tossed things any which way. He found a box and pulled out a single bandaid. Suddenly, as he put it on, he began to cry. He didn't know why, and he struggled to keep his tears silent as they dripped from his eyes onto his hands. Slowly, Tim sank onto the toilet. His head dropped lower and lower as the tears flowed faster and faster. 

"What's taking you so long, McGee? Did you fall in?"

Tim knew he needed to answer, that it was time for them to leave, but he also knew if he said anything that his tears would be obvious. Tony had seen him cry enough already. The time for bawling his eyes out was passed. He sucked in a deep breath.

"If I did, Tony, would you come and fish me out?"

There was a long silence. Then…"McGee, are you all right?"

Tim swallowed back his tears, sat up and took another deep breath. "Yes, I'm fine."

Another long pause. "You sure?"

"Yes…Tony, I'm fine." Tim stood up and looked around the bathroom. He didn't have anything left to do. He looked at himself in the mirror, sighed at the expression on his face, in his eyes, and opened the door. Tony was standing just outside the door, and the expression on his face was almost comical. In fact, Tim had to smile a little. He looked so undecided. Tim knew that his eyes were still red, that it was obvious he had been crying, but Tony looked like he couldn't decide whether to be worried or frustrated. "Where did I put my bag last night, Tony? I can't remember."

Tony made a Herculean effort to pull his mind back into gear and said, "_You_ didn't put it anywhere, Probie. I did. It's by the door."

"I'm ready to go, then."

"About time."

Tim preceded Tony out of the apartment, and as he left, he felt a strange sense of…appreciation. He couldn't express how relieved he was that Tony hadn't asked, that he hadn't forced Tim to explain his tears, that he had been there when he was needed. He'd still be annoyed by Tony, he knew. They hadn't suddenly stepped into an alternate universe in which Tony was one hundred percent a nice guy, but…that was okay, because he was there when it mattered.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Boss, McGee needs to talk to you," Tony said as he and Tim got off the elevator. Tim shot Tony a look, but didn't deny the statement.

"What is it, McGee?" Gibbs asked. Tim looked a little wan, but otherwise okay…compared to how he'd _been_ looking, i.e. death warmed over.

Tim looked up at the ceiling and then exhaled and looked at Gibbs. "I…" _Don't cry, you idiot,_ he said to himself. _It's over; let it go._ "…I found another…message from Smith last night."

Gibbs stood up and glared…not at Tim, just at the situation, but Tim still backed up a step. He quickly schooled his expression. "What was it this time?"

"A…a razor…and a…note telling me to kill myself."

Gibbs forced himself to nod impassively. "What happened?"

"I accidentally cut myself on the razor. I didn't see it until it fell into my hand."

"And?"

Tim looked away. It didn't matter that he knew Ziva, Tony and Abby had all seen him. It was different telling Gibbs about it. "I kind of zoned out for awhile. When I came to, Ziva and Tony and Abby were there. They helped me out."

Again, Gibbs merely nodded. "Go and talk to Ducky."

"I was going to tell him…tomorrow."

"Now, McGee."

"Okay, Boss."

After Tim had left, Gibbs turned on Tony. "How did you miss that?"

Tony had guilt written all over his face. "It was in one of McGee's books…on the bottom shelf. I didn't think about it, Boss. I'm sorry."

"No…it's not your fault. We've been continually underestimating the people involved in this…from day one."

"We're going to clean out the rest of it…whatever there is. Promise, Boss," Tony said. "Boss?"

"What?"

Tony glanced over at the elevator as Ziva got off, a grocery sack in her hand. "McGee's been…cleaning a lot lately."

"Cleaning?"

"He called it decontaminating. It was not…a good clean, Gibbs," Ziva added. "Abby and I began the search. We found three more messages, a vial of something that looks like blood, and a small toy axe."

"How far did you get?" Tony asked. 

"Through most of the books," Ziva said, stifling a yawn. "The axe was actually on the top of the shelf." She grinned suddenly. "He missed a spot when he was cleaning. It was dusty on top."

Somehow, that was comforting…to know that Tim's obsession had a weak point to it.

"You're going to work on it again tonight?" Gibbs asked.

"Yes. I do not want to see McGee like that ever again. If he needs to clean to feel 'decontaminated' then I want the cleaning to be done so that he does not have to be afraid of living in his own apartment."

"Okay," Gibbs said. "We got a tip on that missing cargo. Let's roll."

The three of them left, once again feeling Tim's absence.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Ducky, it's the littlest things now. Before…it was awful and I couldn't control it, but I at least knew what might trigger it. Now…it's a picture…a razor…words on a page. How do I get away from that? How can I do my job if I don't know what's going to set me off again? This morning, I started crying over a bandaid!" Tim slid off the autopsy table and began pacing. "…at least I _think_ that's what I was crying about. I'm not sure. I just started and I couldn't stop." He had barely given Ducky time to say anything when he had walked in. In fact, Jimmy was still standing in the doorway, not knowing whether he should walk out of Autopsy or if he should go back into the freezer. "I'm tired of this, Ducky. I want my life back. I don't want to be afraid of…of what's in my head."

As Tim continued to pace back and forth in front of him, Ducky was surprised at how agitated he was, and he was suddenly reminded of the thought he had had the night before. He was more sure than ever that it was the right decision.

"Timothy? May I get a word in?"

Tim stopped pacing and looked at Ducky almost as if he'd forgotten he was there…which was not a far-fetched idea. He flushed. "Of course, Ducky. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologize, my boy. I just think that we should allow Mr. Palmer the chance to leave before either he freezes or the bodies thaw. Neither option is very pleasant. Then I would like to make a suggestion."

Tim looked over at freezer door. Jimmy was standing there, beginning to freeze.

"Sorry, McGee," he said. "I wasn't sure if I should go back in or if I should sneak out."

"It's okay, Palmer. I should have taken in my surroundings before I started babbling."

Jimmy waved that away and walked out of Autopsy.

"I should have waited," Tim said ruefully. "It's just that Gibbs told me to come down and talk and then…"

"Timothy, it is all right, but could I speak for a moment?"

Tim blushed and stared at his shoes. "Go ahead."

"I would like to make a suggestion, but I want to make sure that you will listen to everything I have to say _before_ you comment on it."

"Okay."

"Very well. I think it is time for you to see an actual licensed therapist."

Tim, as Ducky had known he would, interrupted. "Oh…am I being too…?"

"Let me finish."

"Sorry."

"You are doing very well with the hand life has dealt you, but I do not believe that _I_ can be of much further use in helping you cope. I have a friend who is a very good psychiatrist and she is willing to meet with you to fulfill your remaining obligatory visits in addition to whatever other time you might need." Tim opened his mouth again, but Ducky plowed on. "This is _not_ any sort of indication of your progress, of your problems. This is about the fact that while I pride myself on being well-rounded, I am _not_ a psychiatrist and my training does not really cover the kinds of trauma you have had to deal with. I know this must feel like musical chairs for you, but I do feel it is the best option. If you truly do not wish to do this, I will continue, but I do not feel that is in your best interest."

This time, Tim did not try to speak at the end of Ducky's monologue. He sat back down on the table and clasped his hands together.

"She is very nice and very skilled, Timothy. She's not on NCIS's list however."

"Why not?"

"She said that she doesn't feel qualified to deal with military problems. Since you are not military, she was more than willing," Ducky said smiling. "Besides, I think she wants to redeem her field."

"Did you _tell_ her?"

"Only the very broadest strokes: that you were abused by your previous psychiatrist, that you have been dealing with lingering psychological trauma. Nothing more specific."

Tim didn't answer.

"Part of the reason I became your therapist was because of the obvious trouble you were having trusting others…with very good reason, I might add. Now, however, I will personally vouch for Phoebe and I am willing to sit in on your first session with her if you wish."

Tim stared at his hands. When he spoke his voice was very low, Ducky suspected, to cover up the trembling. "Ducky…I'm afraid. In my head, I know what you're saying is logical…and I know that you wouldn't recommend someone who would…but…I'm afraid of…"

"Of what, Timothy?"

Ducky caught a glimpse of a single tear falling from Tim's downturned face. "Of putting myself…in that position again…of letting…someone have control over me again. It terrifies me, Ducky."

"Then, you should consider this as the next step in your recovery. You have to learn to trust that not everyone you meet is going to do you harm. Most people are not that way. You know it, but…I understand that you fear it will be otherwise. You don't have to decide right now. Give it some thought and let me know."

Tim stood up and walked toward the doors. He stopped and shivered. "I'm cold," he said softly.

Ducky said nothing.

"I stopped here once before, Ducky."

"Yes, I remember."

"I said that I had ruined my life and I wanted someone to know."

"Yes."

Tim turned around…unlike he had done before. Ducky met his gaze, saw the tortured look in his eyes, the swirling emotions, the glint of unshed tears. "I want my life back, Ducky. I want it to be mine again…whatever kind of life it ends up being…I want it to be mine." He paused…and then, after a few seconds, he nodded. "Set it up. I'll do it."

"I will call Phoebe and let Jenny know."

Tim nodded again, not looking happy about it, then continued out of Autopsy. Ducky sighed after he left. There was a vaguely disturbing trend to Tim's declarations. He kept saying that he was tired…and cold. Those two taken together in anyone else would not be cause for concern, but for Tim, they could be a dangerous combination. He was doing very well for what had happened to him. Progress wouldn't be constant. There would be slipups, but Tim was getting tired of them and he didn't know how to deal with them. He might give up again, in spite of his determination not to.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Friday evening_

"Relax, Timothy," Ducky said encouragingly. The two of them were sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Phoebe Lyons. Tim couldn't shake off his trepidation. He looked around room, trying to take his mind off his anxiety. It was nice, not as fancy as Dr. Leavitt's office had been, but it had a much more welcoming air to it. No leather chairs, no dark, expensive woods. The window was large and let in a lot of light. The décor was rather bland but with small exotic touches…and new magazines.

His thoughts were interrupted by the opening door. He didn't dare look up as Ducky's 

friend came out of her office with another patient.

"Just try to say hello, Marie," Phoebe said. "If they choose to ignore you, it's _their_ problem, not yours."

Tim's head jerked up in surprise. Her voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it. She didn't look familiar. The woman smiled and shook Phoebe's hand. She walked out of the office without looking at either Tim or Ducky. Phoebe then noticed the two men sitting on the couch.

"Donald, hello!" Phoebe said, smiling happily at him. Her voice had a slightly foreign accent to it, but it was a very nice voice.

Ducky stood to greet her. When she put out her hand, he brought it to his lips. "Phoebe, my dear, I must say that you are looking very well."

"What would Warren say if he caught you flirting with me?" Phoebe said, mischievously.

"That I have excellent taste, of course," Ducky returned.

Phoebe then looked beyond Ducky and did the smallest of double-takes when she saw Tim. There was an expression of momentary confusion on her face, which mirrored that on Tim's.

"You must be Agent McGee," she said, approaching him and holding out her hand.

Tim stood and shook her hand, but his mouth was dry, and he couldn't muster any words at all. He just nodded.

She smiled. "I'm happy to meet you, Agent McGee. Donald brought me up to speed on everything that's been happening. I don't blame you at all for being wary of me. For tonight, I'd just like to talk to you, if that's all right."

Tim opened his mouth to speak, but again, no words actually came out. He looked pleadingly at Ducky.

Phoebe only smiled once more. "Don't worry, Agent McGee. Ducky won't leave you to muddle through on your own, unless you wish him to."

Suddenly, something clicked in Tim's head; possibly, it was the use of the word _muddle_ that triggered his memory…a memory of sitting outside in the cold, and the kind words of a stranger. It loosed his tongue, finally.

"You…I've met you before."

Phoebe gave him a searching glance. "Have you?"

"I recognize your voice…the Washington Monument," Tim said hesitantly. He still was only just making eye contact.

Comprehension suffused Phoebe's eyes. "Yes! I _do_ remember you. I guess I was wrong. Your day _did_ get worse."

Tim gulped a little. "Yeah…but you were right about my friends."

Ducky was standing to the side, still looking confused.

Phoebe explained. "We met in passing a couple of months ago, Donald. I'm ashamed to say that I didn't give you much thought after we parted."

Tim smiled a little sheepishly. "Neither did I. I had other things on my mind."

"So I understand."

The knot of worry in Tim's chest eased a little. It didn't completely dissipate. He looked at Ducky. "I…I think I'll be okay, Ducky."

Ducky nodded. "Then, I will remain out here. If you have problems, just give me a shout."

"You don't have to wait," Tim said quickly.

"I see that Phoebe has the new issue of _National Geographic_. I've been wanting to read about the Black pharaohs. I shall be pleasantly distracted."

"Enjoy, Donald. Shall we, Agent McGee?" she gestured toward her office and saw the fear settle on his face as he nodded and walked toward the door.

-------------------------------------------------------

Once they had both settled themselves on the comfortable chairs in her office, Phoebe said, "Now, Agent McGee…"

"You can call me Tim."

"Very well, Tim, I was shocked and revolted when Donald told me what had happened to you. Let me say, right up front, that if anything happens in here that makes you uncomfortable, you can tell me or you can end the session. Not everything that we discuss will be pleasant or easy, but if you are truly unsettled, you can put a stop to it. Understand?"

"Yes. Can…can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

Tim shifted his gaze from Phoebe to a blank spot on the wall. "Dr. Leavitt…do you know him?"

"Only by reputation…and now by his criminal activity."

"He…during the interrogation, he said that any psychiatrist worth his salt had thought about it."

"About what?"

"About being able to force a person to…to make their minds break…intentionally."

"What is the question, Tim?"

"Have you?"

Phoebe sat back in her chair and appraised the man sitting across from her. He was much changed from their brief conversation before. He had all the hallmarks of someone who had _been_ broken…who was _still_ broken, although mending. Ducky had told her about his sudden mood swings, about the problems he'd had from the mementos left behind by Smith, the obsessive cleaning. He hadn't figured out his own mind and it was giving him trouble. All that being said, however, he was still a very intelligent man and he wanted to know.

"Yes, I have, Tim. Anyone who works in such a field has. Doctors can cause as much damage as healing when treating their patients' bodies. Teachers have malleable minds before them every day. The idea that one could use the skills learned and twist them, pervert them, is always there. You, I believe, are a computer expert, are you not?"

Tim nodded.

"You have the potential to use the skills you have developed to ruin people's financial lives, to steal information from our government and sell it to the highest bidder. Would you be tempted to do that?"

"No!" Tim said vehemently. "I've been curious, of course, and I've pushed the limits occasionally, but nearly always in the course of doing my job."

"Precisely. Most, nearly all of us, think about it with revulsion. We are doctors, Tim. We take oaths to _heal_ our patients, not harm them. It is only a very few who react to the thought as Leavitt did. It was your misfortune that he embraced the thought."

Tim nodded and looked down. His hands rubbed obsessively over the arms of the chair. Phoebe reached out and touched his right hand and he flinched. She decided that she needed more information than she had. Ducky had given her loads of it, but she hadn't had time to distill it all down to the germaine points.

"Tim, could you walk me through what has happened?"

Tim looked up, stricken. "Why?"

"So that _I_ can help _you_."

"That's what Dr. Leavitt said…at first."

"I understand that you are afraid to trust me. I understand that you fear this entire situation."

Tim's eyes quickly slid back down to his lap.

"I cannot promise you that I am perfect. In fact, I can promise you just the opposite. What I can promise you is that I will do my best and that I will _not_ take the same approach."

"I know that. I really do…it's just…"

"It's hard to take the risk."

"Yes."

Phoebe leaned back again…and waited.

"How much detail?" Tim asked finally.

"As much or as little as you choose."

"Okay…" Tim leaned forward and began to talk, starting from the first day, when Petty Officer Johnson had been on the elevator with him.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I found something," Abby said wearily. She was searching Tim's computer area. After the first couple, Smith's obsession with destroying Tim had become more tiring than shocking. The level of malice and attention to detail he had displayed was both disturbing and difficult to deal with.

"What, Abbs?" Gibbs asked from his perusal of Tim's kitchen cupboards.

"Another photo…this one is of us…dead."

"What?" Gibbs walked out of the kitchen and over to Abby.

"Yeah, it's pretty…gruesome, but it's not nearly as good as some of his others." She held 

it out to Gibbs who looked at the mangled and twisted bodies and sighed. He added it to the pile. Even Tim's obsessive cleaning had missed quite a few of these things. They were tucked in places Tim probably visited once or twice a year, like the top of his ceiling fan.

"Hey, guys?" Jimmy's voice came from the area around Tim's writing desk.

"What?"

"I…I'm not sure if this is one or not."

Ziva and Tony came out of the bedroom, Abby and Gibbs from the computer. They all huddled around another manipulated photograph. It was different than the others. For one thing, there was no vindictive message attached. For another…it was showing a scene that Smith could never have seen…he had been dead when it had occurred. It was an image of Dark Hollow Falls. They all recognized it. Obviously grafted into the image, was a bridge. On the bridge was a man, leaning over, one hand reaching down toward the water. Abby looked at the picture and then looked into the drawer in which Jimmy had found it. There was a stack of altered photos in there. Different locations in DC and the area surrounding it. 

She shook her head. "These aren't from Smith."

Gibbs agreed. "They're book locations, aren't they."

"Yeah. Tim must have made these himself…as inspiration."

They all fell silent, realizing for the first time what they were doing. They were searching through Tim's private life…because someone else had already done the same thing. Tim felt dirty because his life had been invaded and desecrated. _Decontamination_ was a good word for what they were doing. They were cleaning the darkness out of Tim's life where Smith had tried his best to lodge the darkness deep inside.

----------------------------------------------------------------

"…and now, I just don't know what to expect anymore. Nothing seems to happen like it should," Tim said. "Sometimes things are fine and then…all of a sudden, they're not. I'm back in the nightmare and I can't get out." He had long since abandoned the chair and Phoebe had let him pace. It made him feel safer to be able to move. "I want my life back. It hasn't been mine…not for a long time, and I'm tired of it belonging to someone else."

"I can't tell you how happy I am to hear you say that, Tim."

Taken by surprise, Tim stopped pacing. "Why?"

"Because that statement alone tells me that you're going to succeed."

"Shouldn't _I_ feel more hopeful about it?"

Phoebe stood. "You are in the thick of it, so to speak. It's hard to see the forest for the trees sometimes. Try to take a step back…from yourself. See what we, the outside observers, can see. You are stronger than you think, Tim. You have it in you to beat this, to win. You'll probably always remember, but it will be a memory that _you_ control, not one that controls you. You _can_ do it…just like the Nike ads."

Tim laughed.

"You look much better when you smile. You should try it more often."

"It's harder now than it was."

"Studies have shown that if you smile even when you don't want to, it often lightens your mood."

"It sure doesn't seem that way."

"Trust me, Tim."

Tim went solemn again. "I'll work on that."

"That's a good start."


	46. Chapter 46

**Chapter 46**

_When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won. There have been tyrants and murderers …_

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_Sunday evening…_

"How are you doing, Tim?"

"Fine, Dad," Tim answered, looking around his apartment. He trusted everyone when they said they had gotten everything…but what if they were wrong?

"Fine?"

"Well…okay, anyway."

"Tim…"

"I really am, Dad. I'm doing better. I'm going to start writing again tonight."

"Are you ready for that?"

"Yes. I'm ready…at least, I think so. How are the essays?"

Sam sighed. "I just finished reading one entitled, 'John Donne: Wrong'."

Tim laughed.

"Laugh all you want, mister, but so far the only tolerable part of it has been the title."

"What is it about?"

"This kid is comparing the sentiments expressed in 'Death Be Not Proud' to some two-bit modern suicide poet. It's an idea that could work in the hands of a good writer, but he is neither good, nor is does he warrant the appelation of _writer_. To put it crudely, this essay is a piece of crap."

"I dare you to write that on the comments."

"If these don't get any better, I just might."

"Remind me never to let you read my drafts."

"You never do anyway."

"It's hard enough letting my publisher get her hands on them."

"Yes, well, from the way you've described her, I'll bet that even Cicero would have been worried about letting her get her hands on his orations and letters…and he would never have been described as overly modest."

"Thanks for calling, Dad," Tim said.

"All right, all right. I'll let you go. You're just lucky that your mother's not here at the moment. She was ready to storm the battlements when you missed your call last week."

"I'm sorry. It won't happen again."

"It will happen again, Tim…and I'll be happy when it does."

"Bye, Dad."

"Bye, Tim."

Tim hung up and looked at his typewriter. It seemed to be beckoning him to come closer. He looked around his apartment again. It was strange how something so…inanimate could seem so…threatening. He walked to his typewriter and sat down, but he couldn't write anything. He couldn't get over the feeling that there was someone else in the apartment with him. Instead, he stood and walked to his bookshelf. He began to pull books off the shelves. He opened them, shook them out, searching for anything that the team might have missed. All it would take was one missed book, one overlooked cranny. He pulled book after book off the shelves. He flipped through the pages and then replaced them. After he finished that, he walked around to the other side and began to search through his spare computer parts, his other books, his boxes, the storage containers on his workbench. Then, he went over to the shelves above his computer. They didn't take long. Then, he went into the kitchen. All through this, he didn't feel anything except for a vague disquiet, like there was something there and he was missing it.

As Tim moved into the bedroom, he suddenly felt the pull and he knew what it was that he was feeling. It was the water again. He'd managed to avoid it since he came back. There had been people around, things happening, other attacks to confront. It was the water. He couldn't hear it, but he _wanted_ to. There was a part of him that, like an addict, wanted to hear the very thing that had almost killed him twice already. He walked into the bathroom.

"I can't," he said aloud, speaking to the bathtub. "I can't do this again. I won't be able to…" Still, he felt the pull. He didn't want to call anyone. He had promised, but he didn't want to. He didn't want to ask someone to tell him whether or not he could turn on the water without freaking out. "Maybe…just once? Just for a little while?"

Tim reached out and then stopped. "No! I won't do this again. I won't do it to my family. I won't do this to my friends. I won't do this to myself. I _won't_!" Tim backed away from the tub so quickly that he ran into his towel rack. Wincing in pain he turned around and looked at it. Then, he looked back at the tub. 

"If I stay here…I'll give in. I just know it." He walked deliberately to the sink, grabbed his razor, toothpaste, toothbrush, hairbrush and a few other essentials and put them in a travel case. Then, he forced himself to walk out of the bathroom and into the bedroom. He grabbed a bag and put some clothes in it. Then, he walked out of the apartment.

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_"Hello, you have reached the office of Dr. Phoebe Lyons. Please, leave your name and number and I will get back to you as soon as possible. If this is an emergency, please press one now. Otherwise, stay on the line and leave your message after the tone."_

"Hi…Phoebe…uh, Dr. Lyons. This is Tim McGee. You told me I should call you if…I had…problems, like I don't already. It's not an emergency, and I'm taking steps to make sure it doesn't become one, but I thought I should tell you while I'm thinking about it…I told you about the water. I can't hear it, but I can feel it now…and I'm afraid that I'll go back to what I was like before. I don't want that, but I'm not sure what to do. I just…I had to leave my apartment so that it didn't happen. Sorry for the…" Tim sighed. "…I don't know what I'm sorry for actually. I just don't know what to do about it. That's all." Tim hung up. He hated leaving messages. He never knew what to say, particularly not in this situation. The light was green and he pushed on the gas. 

A few more minutes brought him to M Street and a few more seconds brought him to the Yard entrance. 

Tim parked and walked into NCIS. It wasn't ideal, but he really didn't want to bother anyone. To be honest, he wanted to be alone. He hadn't been alone for a long time…because even when he had been physically-isolated from everyone else, there was still someone sharing his brain. Leavitt was always whispering. Tim was a loner by nature and it was hard being with people all the time, even when those people had his best interests at heart. …which brought him to NCIS at 11:30 p.m. on a Sunday night. He hadn't decided if he'd tell anyone about this. Finding the words to explain what was going on inside his head was hard enough on the best of days, let alone when his whole life was holding on by a series of weak threads that could snap at any moment. 

He stepped off the elevator and looked around the bullpen, a small smile on his face. No matter how bad things got, this place was almost a sanctuary, more so at times like this than during the day, but still, he felt…better here. He walked to his desk and sat down, automatically, turning on the computer. It was such a habit that he didn't even think about it. He was actually a little surprised when he saw the login box come up on the screen. Still, he had time. He might as well…

A sudden thought grabbed him and he turned his head toward the men's room. This had all started…so long ago, it seemed…but it had started here. It would be so much easier to just pretend it hadn't happened, to pretend that it was a nightmare and bury all his memories deep down inside, but he couldn't do that. This was part of who he was now. He had to accept it. There was a part of him that could break the law, a part that was willing to take the ultimate step to achieve what he thought was justice. These were parts of him he hadn't even known existed, parts that he almost wished he had remained ignorant of. Without thinking, he stood and walked down the hall to the men's room. He stepped inside and remembered how he had used the sound of the water to calm himself down after losing his temper at Tony. Even here…there were memories here as well.

Tim looked at himself in the mirror, really looked. He didn't just look at the eyes, at the expression they always had. He looked at himself. _What do you see?_ he thought. _Who am I now? Was this always there or is it something new? Who am I?_ He reached out to the mirror and touched the glass near his eyes. He knew there was a shadow there, something that might never go away. He had been forced to confront darker pieces of himself. He didn't like to think that they could be there, that he was that kind of person.

"This is who you are now," he said and reached down to the faucet, turning on the water full blast. Tears sprang to his eyes as the sound echoed off the orange walls. He leaned on the counter and dropped his head to his arms. 

_Yes...__or, at least __one__ place to go. Neither of us will leave that place._

_I made sure their deaths were quick. You, on the other hand, deserve no such consideration._

_Horror has a face and you must make a friend of horror. Horror and mortal terror are your friends. If they are not then they are enemies to be feared. They are truly enemies._

_That'__s right, Agent McGee. They'__re dead because of you._

_Tim, how can we make any progress here if you don't admit what you did wrong?_

_Tim, you know how much easier it would have been for everyone had you just died?_

_You see how easy it is? Any psychiatrist worth his salt has thought about it. Any psychiatrist who says he hasn't is lying, either to himself or to you. When one understands human emotions to such a degree, and the way of manipulation is so clear…the temptation is there._

More loudly than the water poured into the sink, the words of his tormenters roared in his head. _Get out of my head,_ he thought desperately.

"Out…get out…I want my mind back," he said aloud. He sank to his knees and began to sob, his tears subsumed beneath the rushing water. He couldn't run away from the memories. They were everywhere. Every part of his life had been affected. There was no single place he could run that would allow him to hide from his past. 

Tim didn't know how long he stayed there, but suddenly, he pushed himself to his feet and turned off the water. Then, he ran out of the men's room. In the hall once more, he sank to his knees again and wrapped his arms around his stomach as he struggled to control his breathing, his memories. He thought he might be sick, but he resisted the impulse. He would not let the memories destroy him. He would _not_ let Leavitt and Smith win. He would not give in.

"I won't. I can't," he said. Another sob escaped as he tried to calm down. One hand moved to the floor, keeping him from falling. _I can beat this. I can control my own thoughts. I can do it._

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

One of the annoying things about being Director of NCIS was the irregular hours. A single crisis could take all night to solve…it could even call her into the office in the middle of the night…like tonight. One-thirty in the morning and she had to deal with a crisis. She stepped off the elevator and headed toward her office, looking absently down at the bullpen where life wasn't simple by any means but was surely simpler than her own. A light down below caught her attention. _Why is McGee's lamp on?_ Jenny wondered. Then, she saw the bag by his desk. Curious, and not wanting to talk to anyone in MTAC anyway, she went down the steps instead of walking back to her office.

"Agent McGee?" she called quietly. Jenny couldn't see anyone, but she knew that Tim hadn't left anything behind on Friday because she had watched him leave. She walked around the desks and toward the hall…and there he was, on his knees in the middle of the hallway. She took a step forward, worried that he might be seriously ill and then stopped when she heard him speaking to himself.

"Don't give in…don't let them win…don't give in," he said breathlessly. He was trying to control his breathing. She watched as his hand spasmed against the floor. Jenny didn't want to interfere. It was important, she knew, for Tim to be able to form his own barriers against his trauma. It was hard to watch him like this, though. She could just leave, leave him his illusion of privacy, let him think that no one had seen him in such a position…but she couldn't. She couldn't leave Tim to struggle against the weight of his own memories, not when she knew what had caused the struggle, not when she knew how hard it was for him to _continue_ struggling. After uncounted minutes, Tim pushed himself upright, taking slow deep breaths as he fought to maintain some semblance of calm. Only when he was actually standing again, did Jenny make her presence known.

"Agent McGee."

Tim spun around to face her and she saw the exhaustion, the guilt, the embarrassment and the barest trace of triumph.

"Director Shephard! What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice only a whisper.

"I could ask you the same question. I don't remember requiring that my special agents come in on Sundays…or even early Monday mornings."

No question about it, Tim was embarrassed that he'd been caught…at whatever he was doing.

"I was just…getting an early start?"

"Early start?" Jenny asked, amused. "How early a start do you need?"

Tim looked down at his watch and then dropped his hand to the side as if it had suddenly become to heavy for him.

"McGee, why don't you go up to my office? I have to have a conversation in MTAC, but we can talk there."

Tim blanched at the thought of talking to the Director in her office…when he wasn't even being disciplined, reprimanded or evaluated.

"I don't bite, McGee," Jenny said.

"No, ma'am." Tim's eyes dropped to the floor.

Jenny walked up to him and put her arm around his shoulder. She felt him tense at the physical contact, but she urged him to move toward the elevator. She walked him to her office and let him inside.

"I'll be back in a few minutes, McGee."

"Yes, ma'am."

Jenny took a glance at Tim standing in the middle of her office, looking a bit lost. She smiled. That at least looked like the Tim she knew.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The door closed and Tim was alone in the office. He wondered why he didn't feel more tired…actually, he _was_ tired, but not in a sleep-deprived way, more in a _I've just run a million miles_ way. He looked around, and unerringly, his eyes fell on the clover again. He smiled. It beckoned him closer and he approached Jenny's desk. Jenny seemed more human to him when he thought of the clover. He didn't know why, but it was true. Her desk was so austere and official, but there was this one small token of…what? Individuality? Defiance? …or did it have no meaning at all, just a worthless piece of jewelry that she hadn't taken the trouble to dispose of? No, that last didn't seem right. If it meant nothing, Jenny wouldn't have left it there. She would have thrown it away. No, it had to mean something, and Tim really wanted to know. He reached out to touch it, even though it felt almost sacrilegious to do so. His fingers were inches from the clover when the door reopened. He spun around, hiding his hands behind his back as if they had been branded by his temerity.

"Sometimes, I wonder why I even bother," Jenny muttered as she walked in. She looked at Tim and shook her head, oblivious to his nerves. "You'd think that after calling me in at this time of the night, it would mean that the solution could _only_ be affected by me. Instead, I get in there, hooked up, and in the meeting and they say that they don't need my help after all."

Tim wasn't sure what to say. He wasn't sure if he _should_ say anything at all. Instead, his eyes slid involuntarily back to the clover. Jenny followed his gaze and when he noticed that she had seen, he pulled his eyes back to her, afraid she would be annoyed. Her eyes twinkled, but she didn't say anything. She simply gestured to a chair and settled on a chair herself. 

"Tim, I'm not talking to you as the Director right now." At his disbelieving stare, she chuckled. "I'm not going to pretend that we're bosom buddies or anything. We have rarely, if ever, actually spoken when I am _not_ the Director. However, it is two in the morning. You are here, for some unexplained reason. I am here for no reason at all. Such a situation is unlikely to come up again. …so…are you all right?"

"I…" Tim looked at Jenny, trying to discern what reason she might have for asking him this question. Then, without meaning to, he looked at the clover again and realized that he could answer her…honestly. "I don't know."

Jenny didn't speak. She was waiting for him to elaborate.

"Sometimes…I think I am. I feel…almost normal again. Other times…it's as bad or worse than it was. I don't know which one is going to win out in the end. I want to…but I don't know."

"Do you know why I have that clover on my desk, Tim?"

Tim swallowed. "No, ma'am."

She sighed good-naturedly. "Tim, you don't have to 'ma'am' me."

"Yes…ma-" Tim stopped and blushed.

"Where I got it is unimportant…and classified, but I put it there as a reminder."

"A reminder of what?"

"That I'm human, Tim. Despite where I am, what I do, I am still a human being. I'm not perfect. I make mistakes. I might be the only person who sees it there, but when I do, I remember and it makes me feel better."

"Why?"

"Because in my job, it's easy for people to see the position and not the person behind it. I have to make tough decisions every day and if I choose wrong, even if there was no better option, it is the Director's fault. I can remember, every time I see that little trinket, that I'm still a human being, no matter what anyone might think. When someone else notices, they nearly always catch my eye. Most don't have the guts to actually ask me, but their eyes ask. They always ask with their eyes, much like you did. You wanted to know why it was there, didn't you?"

"Yes…ever since I saw it when I met with Ducky in here."

"We all make mistakes, Tim. I do…I _have_. Some mistakes, we can never take back. They are irrevocably our own. Feeling regret is natural. It's the right response to a mistake…"

Tim sighed. "…but what I'm doing is not…is it…"

"No, Tim. It's not. It's only holding you back. I'm not saying you should forget it…"

"…no worries there…"

Jenny smiled but continued, "…but you can't let it take over your life. I know what I'm talking about. Don't think you're the only who wishes he could take something back."

"I don't…"

"I know that, but at the same time, you are not letting yourself be human. You expect a lot less of others than you do of yourself. No one is holding you to a higher standard than you yourself are."

Tim looked down and his hands, but then, again, he looked over at the clover and met Jenny's gaze again.

"What were you doing here, Tim?"

Tim didn't want to answer that question. In spite of Jenny's kindness, her personable manner, he had a hard time not thinking of her as the Director, as his boss…and this was such an intimate look into his psyche.

"It won't leave this room if you don't want it to. It won't even stay in _this_ room if you'd rather the Director not hear about it."

Tim looked up at Jenny and had to smile. "I was running away," he confessed.

"From what?"

"From…everything that happened. From everything I did…but I can't. I realized that the only way I can really escape from the memories is…"

"What?"

"…by dying." Tim did look away this time, toward the window, out onto the Yard. "I just wish there was some other way."

"Tim, are you thinking about it still? About suicide?"

"Only as an unviable option."

"Unviable…an ironic choice of word."

Tim laughed and blinked furiously. "It's true, though."

"Yes, you're right."

"You know…if I could I would take it all back. Even if it meant that Smith did kill me…or even if he got away. I would take back everything I've done. That's what makes it so hard to keep going." Tim shivered. "And I still feel cold. Oh, it's nothing with my actual body temperature. It's psychosomatic, I guess. Too much time spent feeling cold for real."

"Tim, do you know who the real victim has been in this case?"

Tim didn't answer.

"People have died, yes, and that was tragic and something we all wish had not happened, but _you_ have been the victim…over and over again. Smith intended it that way and it has been. You have been a victim at the hands of too many."

A tear escaped from Tim's control.

"You've been the victim, but you don't need to remain the victim. I heard you in the hall outside the men's room. That was not the behavior of a victim. You were fighting back."

"I almost didn't make it," Tim whispered.

"But you _did_."

Another tear followed the first.

"You're not a victim anymore, Tim."

Tim still wouldn't look back at her, his eyes fastened unseeing on the window.

"No one here sees you as a victim either. They see you as a friend, as a colleague. No one who has watched your struggle could see you as anything but a fighter. Your wounds aren't visible, but they are just as hard to bear." Jenny stood and walked to Tim. He automatically stood as she did, a chivalrous gesture that made her smile. She stood in front of him. "It _would_ be easier to die. That is the only choice that would truly be the way out, but you haven't taken it. Yes, I know you tried, but you haven't tried again. You rejected the option when it was given to you. You've been fighting, Tim, but I see now that you see it as a losing battle, one that you can only keep fighting and never win."

Tim didn't look away, and his eyes told her that she was right.

"Take the next step, Tim. Embrace the life that you have. Embrace the chance you have to live again, because if you don't, you may as well have died. If you're not going to accept your life, move on, you're not ever going to truly live."

Tim looked at her and as he listened, something inside him clicked. The words flowed as they hadn't in weeks, in _months_. He was writing again.

"Now, I think you should get some sleep, Tim…as should I."

"Yes…Jenny."

Jenny smiled as Tim dropped his gaze once more, embarrassed at his audacity, saw the clover and looked up again.

"We're all human, Tim."


	47. Chapter 47

**Chapter 47**

_...and for a time they seem invincible…_

_Monday morning…_

Phoebe unlocked her office and saw the blinking light on her phone. She sighed, wondering who had left her a message before seven a.m. Her patients, while troubled, often kept their problems to themselves outside of sessions. That was one of the things that she had to help them overcome…the feeling that no one could help and that no one wanted to help. She knew that she was a last ditch attempt to maintain sanity when dealing with the problems themselves didn't work. She wasn't one of those psychiatrists who thought that professional therapy was the only way for a person to heal… but in some cases, it really was the only way.

When she listened to Tim's voice, hesitant and worried, she thought back to the tormented young man she had first met on the Mall and then again a couple of days ago. Tim was not healing like she had expected he would. She had taken the weekend to catch up on everything that had happened to him. It seemed to Phoebe that Tim's problems were rooted as much in his initial crime as in all the trauma that came after…wave upon wave of it. No, Tim needed help. His friends were doing a good job of working to give him the peace of mind he needed to function, but he needed to be able to do more than merely function.

_Monday afternoon…_

Tim yawned widely as he plowed through endless lines of code. He hadn't slept much when he returned to his apartment. For one thing, he was still leery of going to sleep, but more importantly, he'd finally been able to write again…without turning on the water. It hadn't been much and he had to admit after reading it again that it wasn't very good, but he had written.

He rubbed his eyes tiredly. This search was necessary, but he had been working on it for hours and even though he liked it as a general rule, it could still lose its appeal after so long.

"Tim, I swear you haven't moved since this morning."

Tim couldn't tear his eyes away from the screen for a moment. Then, he blinked and moved his head to see around his monitor.

"What?"

Abby stood with her hands on her hips, eyeing him intently. "You've been sitting right there since I got here this morning. Have you moved?"

"Besides my eyeballs and my fingers?"

Abby smiled. "Yes."

Tim thought about it. "I don't think so."

"Then, you need to."

"I have to figure out who else hacked the Navy, Abby. That's what Director Shephard told me to do. Gibbs needs this to get his warrant."

Abby turned his chair. "That doesn't mean you have to kill yourself to do it," she said and then looked stricken at her words.

Tim struggled not to sigh. "Abby, you don't have to be so careful…and I'm not. I'm just trying to…" _…make up for all my stupidity…_ "…get this done quickly. Besides," he said, looking at his watch, "I've only been working for six hours."

"Did you eat lunch?"

"I wasn't hungry."

"Tim…"

"Abby, you're not my mother. I'm okay," he said and smiled to take the sting out of his words.

"Are you sure?"

Tim put his hand over one of Abby's. "I'm not…back to normal, but I'm okay."

Abby seemed to be trying to read his mind as she continued to stare at him, but finally, she nodded and said, "Okay. I have to get back to work myself. Just…take it easy, Tim."

"I will…" Tim said and watched Abby walk back to the elevator. "…some day." His phone started to ring. He looked at the number and hesitated. He just looked at it as it continued ring and then went to voicemail. He started to search again when the phone started to ring for a second time. It was the same person. He couldn't bring himself to answer and let it go to voicemail again. After the third time, he knew that he had to answer the phone. "Agent McGee," he said.

"Agent McGee, this is Dr. Lyons."

"Yes?" he asked.

He could hear the smile in her voice, but she didn't address the fact that he had failed to answer her first two calls. "I received your message. Do you have time this evening to speak to me?"

"Uh…well…"

"I have space, and I think we need to talk about what you told me. Is that all right?"

"Well…I…yes?"

"Is that a question?"

"No. It's…it's fine. When?"

"How about eight o'clock?"

"Okay."

"This isn't the principal's office, Tim. You're not in trouble."

Tim forced a laugh. "I know."

"Perhaps not yet. See you tonight, Tim."

"Good-bye."

_Monday evening_…

Tim was sitting nervously on one of the comfy chairs in the waiting room. There was a magazine in his hand, but he didn't even know which one it was. He'd absently grabbed one when he had first sat down. He was early. While he waited, the door to the office opened and in came the same woman who had been leaving on Friday. He looked at her and tried to smile, but she avoided his gaze. Rather than sit on the other soft chair next to him, she chose to sit on an unpadded window seat. She looked determinedly out the window and said nothing.

After a couple of minutes, Tim looked at her. Every line of her posture screamed that she didn't want to be there, that she would rather be doing anything else than be sitting in this office.

"Do you--?" he began.

"No! I don't want anything from _you_."

"Okay…" Tim said, and he couldn't help wondering what had happened to her…or if she was just naturally abrupt.

After about a minute, she said, "You probably think I'm being rude and insensitive, right?"

"No."

She looked away from the window…and almost at him. "Why not? I was."

"I didn't think so," Tim answered. "I've done much worse."

"Oh really? Is that why you're here?" 

It was a challenge, but Tim didn't feel the need to rise to it. He thought about everything that had happened to him, everything that had led to this point and he couldn't pinpoint a single event that required his presence here. All he knew was that sometimes the whole was suffocating him.

"I suppose."

Something in the way he said it seemed to affect her. "What do you mean?" she turned toward him.

Tim considered again. "Have you ever felt…I don't know…like there's been…like…" Tim couldn't figure out how to explain it. "…like your life doesn't belong to you? Like someone has taken it, even though you're still alive?"

She looked him full in the face. "How could _you_ know what that feels like?"

Tim shrugged. "Just lucky, I guess."

"No. You _can't_. No one can know what that feels like, especially not you."

Tim looked down. "I wish you were right…but I do."

"Did Dr. Lyons put you up to this?"

Tim looked up and felt angry, but he tried to ignore that. It wouldn't help. "No."

The woman's voice began to rise in volume and she stood up. "She keeps telling me that there are people who understand, that I should join those support groups, and then here you are…a _man_ and you're trying to tell me that you understand how it feels to have every breath you take belong to someone else? That you know what it's like to be powerless, at the mercy of someone stronger than you who just wants the control and enjoys making you suffer? You _can't_ know that."

Tim tried to hold back the tears…and the anger. "I can," he said in the same quiet voice. Before she could deny him again, he continued. "You wake up in the morning and for a moment, you think that you're back there, paralyzed, dying. Every moment is bringing you closer, but you never get there and that's the worst thing of all. Death would be a blessing in comparison, but you can't die. You have dreams at night, reliving the same thing over and over again. Sometimes, even during the day; it's like you're still under his control. What happened to you makes every part of your life feel contaminated. There's filth in your head, in your home, in everything that used to make you happy. You try to get rid of it, but you can't clean out what's inside of you. You try…you try to clean out everything…and still you find pieces…even when you think that you're finally free of it…you find that there was still something left all along and it sends you _right back to where you started_. You'll go hours, even days feeling fine and then…bam! He's back, whispering in your head, telling you all the same things, the worst things you ever thought about yourself, telling you it's your fault. You deserve to suffer; you deserve to die; nothing you can do is ever going make it right…and you can't stop the words. You can't stop the sounds. You can't stop… You can't get away from him. You can't get away from yourself. The only way…" he stopped, unable to finish the sentence.

"…is to die," she whispered.

Tim nodded. "…but you can't do that either," he said, his voice shaking. "But no one understands. They try and you love them for trying, but you can't explain what they haven't felt. You're at a loss to tell them what you're thinking in your head, what controls you, what hurts. Sometimes, you can't explain it to yourself and you just want it to go away. You just want to get away from everything…but you can't…because it's _you_ that you're really running from." At some point, Tim realized that he had stood up. He didn't remember doing so. "You're desperate for something to make you feel normal. You know you're not, but you wish that the people around you would stop treating you differently because you already know you're different. You already know that you've changed. You wish you could change back, but you can't do that either."

In the silence that followed, Tim and the woman stared at each other, both of them barely breathing. Then, the woman slowly rolled up her sleeves, silently revealing two healing wounds on her wrists.

Tim looked at them and then moved his gaze back to her eyes…eyes so like his own. "I don't know what happened to you, but I _know_ how you feel." A tear finally escaped.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "Does it ever go away?"

Tim smiled as another tear escaped. "I wish I knew. If you find out, let me know."

She held out her hand. "My name is Marie."

"I'm Tim," he said as he took the proffered hand.

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

"Marie, what brings you here tonight?"

Both Tim and Marie jumped, the connection of their hands severed in an instant at the sound of Phoebe's voice.

"I was just…I wanted to talk to you."

"I have an appointment with Tim, first," she said.

"Marie can go," Tim said. "I'll wait."

Phoebe looked between the two of them. She had heard the end of Tim's speech. She was willing to bet that he had never been so explicit to anyone, not even his family…but then, they couldn't understand.

"It won't take long, Dr. Lyons," Marie said, rolling her sleeves back down.

"You don't mind, Tim?"

"No." Tim sat back down and watched the two women disappear into the office.

"What happened to him?" Marie asked.

"Now, Marie, you know I don't tell other people's stories."

"How could he know?"

"Know what?"

"How I feel."

"I told you some people know."

Marie looked embarrassed. "I was going to tell you that you weren't helping me, that you didn't get it and that I didn't need to come anymore…because you were wrong. No one could understand. But I was the one who was wrong. I'm sorry, Dr. Lyons."

"Marie, I've been told much worse. You're not the first to tell me I'm worthless. You won't be the last."

"I'll be here on Friday."

"I look forward to it."

Marie smiled a little and left.

Tim came in hesitantly a few seconds later. "I didn't…hurt her, did I?"

"What do you mean, Tim?" Phoebe asked.

"I won't ask what happened, although I could guess. I didn't mean to…go off like I did."

"Tim, you probably helped her. Have you ever told anyone what you told her?"

Tim shook his head. "I tried…once." 

Phoebe didn't have to ask who he had tried to tell.

"Well, tell me about the water, Tim. Why is it that you're drawn to it?"

"I don't know."

Phoebe gestured to a chair.

"That was pretty quick."

"I don't…know."

"You don't know? Or you don't know how to say it?"

"I hate it. I hate the sound. It's hard enough just turning it on to shower in the morning or wash my hands…but at the same time…"

"You _want_ to hear it."

"Yes."

"Why?"

"It's been there for so long."

"Where?"

Tim's hand moved involuntarily to his head. "He said it was a part of me. He was right. I know what listening to it could do, but at the same time, that's what I want to have happen."

"What does listening to the water do to you, Tim?"

"It…" Tim stopped. He didn't know how to say it. 

Phoebe leaned forward. "What has been the worst part of this experience for you, Tim?"

"I…sometimes…often…I feel like I'm not in control, like I have no choice in what happens to me. It's all in the hands of everyone else and I just have to go along."

"Tim, I want you to look and me and listen very carefully to what I'm going to say."

Tim did so. "Okay."

"Don't you see, Tim? That's _exactly_ what the water does to you. It takes away your control. It takes away your choice. You become at the mercy of the traumatic memories in your head. _You_ are not in control anymore. Your memories are. Leavitt and Smith are. When you say that you hate the water, you're saying that you hate giving them the control, but at the same time, you _want_ that control taken from you."

"_No!_ I don't want that!" Tim said, shaking his head vehemently. "I've been fighting against that."

"That's why you want it, or why a part of you wants it…so that the fight will be over. Aren't you tired?"

"Yes."

"Tired of fighting?"

"Yes."

"But you keep fighting, right?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

Tim couldn't answer.

"You chose to live, Tim. Twice, you chose to live. Why?"

"I don't want to die."

"Why not? Give me a reason."

"My family. I don't want to leave them."

"What else?"

"My friends. My job. My writing. I want to live…really live."

"You have to fight for that."

"I know."

"When you get tired, Tim, when you feel like you can't fight anymore, that's when you want to give in, even though you want to survive and be the master of yourself again. That's the most dangerous time for you. We all get worn down, in spite of our best efforts."

"How do I stop it?"

"You don't."

Tim looked at her in confusion. "I don't get it."

"Tim, if you were to pick out the one thing you regret most, what would that be?"

"Assuming that my team wouldn't be there for me. My hiding the photos was because I didn't think they'd believe me."

"What do you want to do about that?"

"I want to take it back."

"But you can't do that, Tim."

"I know."

"That's the problem."

"What?"

"You want something that can't happen, Tim," Phoebe said deliberately. "And in dwelling on that thing that you cannot do, you are only setting yourself up for failure. You have to let yourself move on. Let go of what you did and embrace what you _can_ do."

Tim leaned forward as well. "What is that? What _can_ I do to…fix it?"

"You don't fix it. You have done all that you can do. You confessed. You submitted yourself for disciplinary action. You fulfilled the terms of your punishment. Now, you are trying to get through all the other things that happened. The past is a part of you, but it can't be all. Otherwise, you _can't_ live as you say you want to."

"How do I do that?"

"Accept that you screwed up and move on."

"I know I screwed up."

"But you're not moving on. I'm not saying that this is easy. It's not. It's difficult, as I'm sure you're aware, but you _need_ to let go of the guilt you're still harboring. You've become so used to having it there, that you don't know how to live without it."

"How do I forget it?"

"You don't forget."

Tim seemed ready to cry in frustration. "I don't understand!"

"Do you honestly think that you're going to ever forget what's happened during these last few months?"

"No."

"Then, don't _try_ to forget it. Incorporate it into your life. You've made a mistake and now you have to learn from it. Isn't there a saying that those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it? Don't forget; learn."

"How do I let go and remember it at the same time?"

"By learning. You learned a very important lesson from all this…horror that you went through. What was it?"

Tim stared at her for a long time, wondering what she could possibly be talking about.

"Think, Tim. You know this. You've said it already."

Unbidden, the images came into his mind: Gibbs, sitting with him in his apartment as he slowly fell apart, being there, trying to help; Abby, with him in the hospital first with his ulcer and then when Smith had nearly killed him; Tony, offering his apartment, asking if he was okay; Ziva, kissing him on the cheek to distract him, holding him when he broke down; Ducky, giving up his evenings to help Tim work through it all; Jimmy, not holding a grudge; Jenny, talking with him as though they were equals, even if only for a moment. 

"I can trust them. They'll be there."

"Yes."

"But it's such a high cost to learn that."

"Yes, it is." Phoebe touched Tim's hand and noticed that he still tensed. "Sometimes, the cost seems too high, but in this case, you've paid the price and there are no refunds."

Tim closed his eyes and nodded.

"Grief is natural. Regret is natural. They're nothing to be ashamed of, but don't let them rule your life. When fighting gets too hard, ask for help. You don't have to be falling apart in order to need it. When you're tired, take a break. You can't spring back from this right away. It will take time. Accept that and you can move on. Deny it and you're only going to relapse…again and again, until you can't do it anymore."

"I know," Tim said and dropped his head, covering it with his hands. "I know. I've felt it. It's just…easier to pretend."

"Only in the short term. If you want to succeed, then you have to learn to pace yourself, pace your recovery. If this happens again, you need to have something you can do to combat it. Find something to remind you that it's in the past. You're right at the point where things can go either way. It's like hiking. You climb and climb and you think you won't make it because that hill seems interminable, but then…if you keep going, suddenly you're at the top and heading down the other side and it's so much easier."

"Will it really be that way?"

"Yes. Even on the downhill there will be bumps, but it will be easier to deal with…you just have to keep fighting and know that you can win."

Suddenly, Tim smiled. "I'm not fighting a losing battle."

"Have you had this conversation already?"

"This part."

"It's still true."

"Okay." Tim stood up and Phoebe followed suit.

"Oh, and Tim?"

"What?"

"Try to have a little fun. Otherwise, you might forget how to smile…and you have a very nice smile. My husband might get jealous."

Tim blushed…and smiled.


	48. Chapter 48

**Chapter 48**

…_but in the end they always fall…think of it, always._

_Mahatma Ghandi_

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_Next Monday evening…_

It was a scene becoming all too familiar…as was the subject matter, but it was still a necessity.

"This is the last week of his required probation. What do you think?" Jenny asked, looking at both Gibbs and Ducky.

Uncharacteristically, neither of the men answered. Both were silent.

"I need to know," Jenny said.

"As far as his work, he's been fine," Gibbs said finally. "He found the other hacker. He hasn't lost any of his skills."

"But?"

"But he hasn't been back in the field…" Gibbs hesitated, not wanting to admit it. "…and he doesn't seem to want to. I think he's still afraid of messing up again."

"Ducky?"

"I agree. He feels safe here. He's managed to get back what he had, and it's out there that the anxiety still lies."

"Ducky, I know that you're not acting as his therapist any longer, but you do still see him, and I value your opinion as well as Jethro's. What if we sent him out? I've had a recommendation from Phoebe Lyons about this. She says that it should be his choice, but that he may need some nudging to get there." She laughed. "Actually, what she said was that he should be allowed to go out and do whatever it is that we do at the beginning of an investigation."

Ducky chuckled. "Phoebe will never pretend to know something she doesn't actually know. Allowed yes, but he will probably still be nervous about doing so."

"One other thing that Dr. Lyons told me was that we need to allow McGee to pace himself. She has told him to take it slowly, but he can't do that if we suddenly thrust him back into everything all at once."

"Meaning?" Gibbs asked.

"If he says it's too much, then let him step back. You know McGee. He won't do that unless he really needs it."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"I want to have another meeting on Friday. If we need to, we can extend his probation, but I want to know how he's doing."

Gibbs and Ducky both nodded and left. Alone again, Jenny looked out the window at the Yard, hoping that she wouldn't have to make a hard decision. Then, she turned around and saw her clover…and she smiled.

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_Tuesday morning, early…_

_Everything was bright…white and sterile. Tim shaded his eyes as he drew nearer to the group. They were standing, staring down at something in the middle of the room. He reached them. It was his friends and family, all staring…Tim drew nearer and stared down with them. It was a bathtub…full of blood. A single hand dangled limply over the edge, slowly dripping bright red drops onto the sterile white floor. He couldn't see who was beneath the surface. He wondered why no one was trying to help. He looked at them. His father was standing, no wheelchair around. His arms were around Sarah and Naomi. They were crying. Everyone else was standing alone, all of them crying, even Gibbs. _

_"Why aren't you helping him?" Tim asked._

_No one seemed to hear him. He stepped forward and grabbed the bloody hand. He pulled it upward. The person he pulled out was covered in blood. As the blood slowly drained away, the face was revealed…it was his own. Tim stared in horror at his own bloody corpse. Suddenly, his eyes opened…green staring into green. He was still dead, but the eyes opened. _

_"Let me go," his corpse said._

_"You'll die," Tim protested._

_"I'm already dead. Let me go."_

_"I can't."_

_"Then, we'll both die."_

_Then, Tim was in the bathtub himself, the blood suffocating him and his corpse was staring down…everyone was staring down at him, watching him drown._

_"Let it go," his corpse said from the distance._

"I can't!" Tim shouted, sitting upright in his bed, covered in a cold sweat. He wiped away the tears streaking his face. A tear-filled laugh escaped his lips and he sat shaking, cold and terrified. He covered his face with shaking hands and struggled to calm down. After a few minutes, he straightened and looked at the clock beside his bed. _Five a.m._... he sighed. _No more sleep today._ He got out of bed and stood on trembling legs. That was a new iteration of the same dream. It didn't matter that he knew it was a dream. It still scared him, and it always seemed to herald a bad day. At least it had come relatively late. Whenever he had the dream, he couldn't get back to sleep again. He looked at himself in the mirror and nodded grimly. Hopefully, the terror would fade before he actually saw anyone. He set about getting ready for the day, figuring that there was always _something_ that needed doing at NCIS.

As soon as he stepped into the bullpen, Tim felt a little better, as he always did. He sighed to himself and headed to his desk. When he got there, he stopped, dropping his bag to the floor. An envelope bearing the name _Timothy McGee_ was sitting on his keyboard. The irrational part of him wondered how in the world Smith could have possibly done that when he'd been dead for nearly three months. The logical, reasonable, part of him quickly dismissed that thought and wondered where it had come from. He slowly approached the innocuous envelope. He sat on his chair and picked it up. It was lumpy, slightly heavy. There was more than paper inside.

He steeled himself and opened the envelope. He tilted it and a small object fell into his hand, along with a single piece of paper, folded in half. He looked at them, his brow furrowed in confusion. Without reading the note, he had absolutely no idea why he had these things. He opened the folded paper and his eyes widened.

_Tim,_

_In light of our previous discussion, I thought you might have need of this. Remember: you're human, too._

_Jenny_

Tim looked at the turtle lying in his palm. It was small, simple…and obviously a charm for a bracelet. It was silly…but he couldn't help smiling. It was somehow so appropriate. Then, he felt as though he was being watched. He looked around, but the bullpen was empty. It wasn't even 6:30 a.m. yet. Then, he looked up. There was Jenny leaning on the balcony. She smiled and he returned the grin. He looked back down at the turtle. _Why a turtle?_ he wondered vaguely, but it didn't really matter. Carefully, he set it on his desk, just under his monitor, where he could see it but it wouldn't be obvious to everyone else. His day had just gotten better.

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Gibbs hung up the phone and grabbed his coat. "Let's roll. We've got a body."

Tony and Ziva jumped up and grabbed their gear. Tim stayed at his desk.

"You too, McGee," Gibbs said shortly.

Tim stood, automatically, but he didn't move from behind his desk. He looked more than nervous. He looked scared.

"Are you sure, Boss?"

"I wouldn't have said it otherwise, McGee. Let's go. I think you're ready."

Tim stood frozen for a moment and then he looked down at his desk and noticed the turtle he'd placed there a few hours before. He nodded, slowly at first and then with more vigor, and grabbed his coat and his bag, running to get on the elevator. Behind him, as the elevator descended, Tony and Ziva looked at each other and smiled. Now, the team felt complete again.

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"McGee, photos. DiNozzo, statements. David, bag and tag," Gibbs ordered tersely.

As Tony and Ziva scattered to fulfill Gibbs' orders, Tim looked at the camera in his hands, deciding how he felt about being back in this situation. He swallowed hard and took a deep breath. He jumped when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked up and saw Gibbs standing beside him.

"If it's too hard, tell me, McGee."

Tim nodded, his eyes wide, not trusting himself to speak aloud.

"Can you do it?"

Tim thought about it for a few moments and then nodded again. "Yes, Boss," he whispered. Suiting actions to words, he walked over to the body lying naked in the snow and began to document it's location, and any evidence that might be there. Gibbs watched Tim as he knelt beside the body in order to get closer to the stab wound. The knife was still in the body and the smudges on the hilt indicated the possibility of fingerprints.

Slowly, Tim began to spiral outward from the body, documenting the footprints in the snow that would surely be melting all too soon. Gibbs went into the house to check up on Tony and Ziva. Ducky arrived a few minutes after he went in and headed to the backyard. He saw Tim crouched down in the snow by the fence, seemingly still taking photos. Jimmy came out soon after and saw Tim still crouched by the fence. He walked carefully over to Tim, being sure to follow the path already marked.

"McGee, are you done with the body?"

Tim nodded but didn't turn.

"You all right?"

Tim nodded again, mutely.

"Are you sure?"

"I'm fine. I'm done," Tim said softly.

"McGee…"

Tim stood and turned around, the track of older tears still obvious on his face. "I'm fine, Palmer. Thanks." Then, before Jimmy could say anything else, he walked around him and back to the patio. Gibbs was just coming out of the house. Tim walked up to him and handed him the camera. "I'm done, Boss." He didn't let Gibbs say anything. He just walked back into the house and out the front door. He sank down onto the front step, resting his elbows on his knees.

Gibbs came out a few minutes later. "What happened, McGee?"

"Why is this so hard? I was fine and then…I don't know."

"I don't know either, McGee, but you don't have be perfect."

Tim shook his head. "It's not about being perfect. It's about being me. I just haven't figured out who I'm going to be yet."

"Can you finish up in the bedroom?"

"I can try."

Gibbs handed him the camera again. "Then, try. That's all I ask."

Tim stood up and took a deep breath. "Thanks, Boss."

"It's worth the effort, McGee," Gibbs said, smiling.

Tim gave a small grin in response. "I'll try to remember that." He took the camera and walked back inside the house.

It was only then that Gibbs let out the breath he'd been holding. He sat down on the same step Tim had recently vacated and wondered whether or not he could actually get back what he'd lost. He was better than he had been; there was no question of that, but Gibbs couldn't help 

remembering when he had seen Tim at his lowest points. He'd never been particularly aggressive, but he was heading toward fearful now…and as much as Gibbs wanted to deny it, he needed his special agents to have the nerve to do what needed to be done, not an agent that couldn't even photograph a crime scene without breaking down. What about the first time he had to be ready to take down a suspect? Would he freeze up like he had with Archer? Would he be able to be there? The real question remained…Could Tim do his job? If not, it would endanger the lives of everyone else to keep him, but it would endanger _Tim's_ life if he were cut loose. Gibbs shook his head and stood up again. As he headed back into the house, he hoped that Tim would make it. He wasn't sure what he'd do if he didn't.

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_Wednesday afternoon…_

"We found another den for this scumbag," Tony said. "It's out in Alexandria. Neighbors reported 'suspicious activity' and the car they saw leaving the house is the same as the one registered to Louis Dalton."

"Go check it out. Take McGee," Gibbs said.

"You sure he's ready for that, Boss?" Tony asked. He looked around. Tim was down with Abby in the lab. "He's been a little shaky."

"He's never going to get back if he's not out there. Take Ziva, too."

Tony nodded. "You're the boss." Then, he walked to the elevator. Gibbs hoped that his own fears didn't show.

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"Abby, what if I screw up again?" Tim said. "You didn't see me at the house yesterday. I could barely finish taking photos! How can I do my job if I keep falling apart?"

"Tim, you _did_ finish," Abby said. "And they're very nice photos."

Tim smiled, but the smile didn't last. "If I can't do this…"

"You _can_," Abby said. "Just remember: one day at a time. Right?"

"Right."

Tony came in, looking distracted. "Let's go, Probie," he said. His title didn't have any inflection attached to it all. For some reason, that worried Tim more than his next words. "We found another scene. Dalton's gone, but we might figure out where he's going next."

Tim looked back at Abby. She smiled encouragingly.

"My stuff's still up in the bullpen."

"Let's go," Tony said again and Tim followed behind, trying to pretend that he wasn't nervous. His first trip back to the field hadn't been as successful as he'd hoped it would be. He ran to his desk and grabbed his bag…and his gun. He looked over at Gibbs as he did and saw that he was watching him. Tim almost said that he shouldn't go, but he looked back at his desk and saw the turtle sitting there so contentedly beneath his monitor. _I can do this_, he said to himself and he ran back to the elevator.

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"Should he be here, Tony?" Ziva asked in a low voice, looking at the stairs Tim had recently gone up.

"Gibbs wants him here. We just need to give him time."

Ziva walked into the living room. "His probationary period is almost up. What will happen if he cannot stack it by the end?"

"Stack it?" Tony asked. "_Hack_ it, Ziva. They'll just extend his probationary status. That's all."

"It cannot be extended indefinitely, Tony."

"It won't have to be, Ziva." Tony walked past her. "I'll start in the kitchen."

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Tim heard them. This was one of those older houses and the walls were paper thin. He knew they were all worried about the same thing he was: What if he couldn't do his job? As he looked around the bedroom, he found himself thinking about the house where Smith had tried to kill him. He had poured over the evidence photos when he'd had the chance to. All he'd ever had the chance to see was the bathroom…and a brief view of the master bedroom. He could remember it all in excruciating detail. He and Phoebe had talked about this on Friday. Part of his problem was that he subconsciously was associating any mistake with his near drowning. He was afraid that if he messed up again, he'd have to go through that same ordeal, a fear that had been so firmly reinforced by Leavitt. Knowing that, he could try to stop the mental process that fueled the fear, but it was hard. It took a lot of effort…and he wasn't very good at it yet.

His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by a series of gunshots from downstairs. He froze…for just a moment. _What should I do?_ Then, he drew his gun and ran down the steps, trying to be quiet, but intent on being sure that Ziva and Tony were okay. He got to the landing and saw Ziva lying on the floor. His mind whirled. _Did I miss the noise? How did this happen?_ Then, he firmly shoved the thought aside. He had to find out what was going on. He could fall apart later…but he knew that he would. He could feel the shriek building up in his gut. He reached the living room. He saw no sign of Tony, but Ziva lay on the floor, unconscious…_not dead!_ Tim heaved a sigh of relief and then began to look for Tony.

"This is a really bad idea, Dalton," Tim heard Tony say. "No silencer? You fired plenty of shots…so did I. Someone will have heard."

"It won't matter. I'll be long gone by then. You'll be dead and no one the wiser."

Tim felt himself start to panic. What if he messed this up? What if Tony died because he couldn't do it right? What if he…What if…What if…? He started to hyperventilate.

"Yeah? What about my partner?"

"She's taking a little nap in the living room. I'll need her for later."

_Get a hold of yourself, Tim! Suck it up!_ Tim shouted in his head. _Let it go! This isn't Smith! You're not helpless! You can stop this!_

Tim took a deep shuddering breath and stepped into the kitchen, his gun trained in the direction of the voices. "NCIS! Freeze!" he shouted.

Tony was on the ground, his hand to his shoulder. Dalton was standing over him, two guns in his hands.

"Drop your weapons!" Tim ordered, trying to keep his voice steady, although he knew it was shaking. His hands, for a wonder, were as steady as he wished his voice was.

"Scared, kid?" Dalton sneered.

"Drop your weapons," Tim said again. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Tony shifting slightly. "I _will_ shoot you!"

"What do you mean?" Dalton asked. "Like this?" He suddenly turned toward Tim with both guns. At the same time, Tony lashed out with his legs, causing Dalton to lurch forward just as he pulled the triggers. Both guns went off…as did Tim's gun…almost as a reflex. Both men fell to the floor and for a few seconds there was nothing but silence. Tony looked toward Tim, but his friend was hidden by the counter. Dalton wasn't moving at the moment, but Tony knew he couldn't depend on that state of events becoming the status quo. He pulled himself over and took out his cuffs. He really hoped Tim hadn't killed him because it wouldn't do Tim any good at all, even if the guy deserved it. As soon as he yanked Dalton's hands behind him, he heard him groan and grinned.

"Turn about is fair play," Tony said, trying to ignore the lightheadedness from his own injury. He found the bullet wound in Dalton's leg, determined that it wouldn't kill him and dragged himself around the counter. "McGee!" he said. Tim was lying on the tile floor…not moving. "Come on, McGee. Please, don't be dead."

Tony reached him and turned Tim over, there was a deep graze on his temple…but Tony could find no other wounds. He nearly cried with relief. "Come on, Probie. Wake up. I need your help here." He slapped Tim's face, gently at first and then with more force. Finally, Tim's eyes fluttered open, awash in pain, and then closed again. "Wake up, Probester. There are too many injuries in this house."

Tim's eyes opened again and focused on Tony's face. "Are you okay?"

"No, McGee, I'm not. That's why I need you to wake up."

Tim blinked a few times, very slowly, and seemed to be taking his time digesting what Tony had said. Tony knew he would soon be too lightheaded to do anything much. He really needed Tim to be functioning. Then, suddenly, he let out his breath in a whoosh of air and sat up quickly, going pale as the blood rushed back to his head. …speaking of blood…

"McGee, are you with me?" Tony asked.

Tim was breathing too heavily. His eyes kept darting around the kitchen, looking for…something.

"Come on, McGee! Focus!" Tony said and with his good arm he reached out and smacked Tim upside the head.

Tim's eyes came back onto Tony…and finally he seemed to really be awake.

"Dalton?"

"Cuffed, leg wound," Tony said. "Ziva?"

"Unconscious, but alive."

"Call for an ambulance. Call Gibbs. But first, help me stop bleeding, okay?"

Tim looked at Tony's blood-drenched shoulder and what little color he had in his face left it.

"Oh…I don't know…what if I…"

"McGee, I'm already shot. You can't do anything more than that. Check Dalton and get the first aid kit."

Tim nodded and stood, swaying slightly, not paying any attention to the blood running down his face from his own graze. He gave Dalton a once over, removed the guns from the kitchen as he ran. He stopped to check Ziva one more time. Her pulse was strong and he allowed himself to feel more relieved about it. Then, he ran out to the car, grabbed the first aid kit and ran 

back in. He grabbed his phone and cradled it between his ear and his shoulder as he helped Tony take off his jacket and then his shirt.

"You're lucky. I don't think it hit anything vital," Tim said, again feeling a huge measure of relief.

"Yes, it did, Probie."

"What's that?"

"Me!"

Tim smiled and then focused on bandaging his shoulder. He had taken only enough time to wipe away the blood from his face. Head wounds always looked more serious than they were anyway. His 911 call was succinct and Tony was fairly impressed with how calm Tim seemed to be. His call to Gibbs was also brief and by the time he hung up, Tony was at least temporarily bandaged. He helped Tony into the living room so that they could all be together and tried to bring Ziva around. The knock on the head had been hard enough that she was still unconscious, although by the time the sirens wailed as the ambulance came up the street, she was starting to groan. Gibbs arrived about two seconds after the ambulance. Ziva and Tony got loaded up and dispatched first, their injuries being more severe. Then, Dalton…in a more secured transport. The paramedics stopped the bleeding on Tim's head and then told him in no uncertain terms to wait for the final ambulance because he'd probably need stitches. The quiet neighborhood was swarming with emergency vehicles, police cars, and Gibbs found it difficult to keep track of where all his agents had ended up…but then, he saw Tim sitting alone on a couch in the living room, blood staining his collar, staring at nothing.

"McGee?"

Tim didn't say anything, but he seemed to hear Gibbs' voice.

"Are you okay?"

He shrugged, an independent motion that while completely uninformative at least told Gibbs that Tim was in there somewhere.

"Can you tell me what happened?"

Again, Tim shrugged, but his face was still pale. Gibbs noticed then, that Tim had a garbage can between his legs.

"Feeling sick?"

At the word _sick_, Tim suddenly leaned over and threw up into the garbage can. Gibbs balanced him and grimaced a little in distaste. When he finished, he was crying.

"What happened, McGee?"

"I was upstairs…I heard gunfire. I came down." Tim had to stop and vomit again. "I didn't think I could do it. I was afraid I'd fall apart. I saw Ziva. I heard Dalton. He was going to kill Tony and take Ziva with him. He didn't seem to know about me being there. I identified myself, told him to…to drop his weapons. He'd shot Tony already. I could see that. He turned and was going to shoot me as well. Tony tripped him and I fired…and so did he, but he missed…mostly." Tim's voice was trembling so much that Gibbs thought he might dissolve into tears again, but he seemed to be in a bit more control. "I thought…I was so afraid that they would all die."

"You did good, McGee."

"I paused…I froze. I waited too long."

"No, McGee. If you had frozen, Tony and Ziva would both be dead, not just injured."

"But…I panicked."

"And you pulled yourself together."

Tim suddenly laughed. "I didn't expect this."

"Neither did I, McGee. I promise."

"If I had known…"

"You wouldn't have dared come."

"No."

Gibbs smiled and patted Tim on the back. "That's what this job is, you know, McGee. The unexpected…and you did exactly what you should have done with the unexpected. I'm not worried."

The sirens for the final ambulance wailed up the street and in moments, the paramedics were gesturing for Tim to go with them.

"I'm not worried, McGee," Gibbs said, meeting his eyes.

Tim nodded briefly. "Maybe I don't have to be either."

As Gibbs watched the ambulance drive away with his agent in the back, he realized that he had told the truth. He wouldn't have thought Tim could handle this kind of situation at all, but he had. True, he had panicked some and he had fallen apart after it was over, but he had handled it. If he could handle it this time, he could handle it any other time…slowly but surely.


	49. Chapter 49

**Chapter 49**

_Thursday evening…_

Tony was bored. The very pleasant female doctor taking care of him had refused, in the face of massive flirtation no less, to release him until Friday night. So, he was stuck in this hospital bed…all alone. It really wasn't fair. Ziva had been released after a single night and Tim hadn't even been admitted. The guy who'd been in the most dire straits for the last month was the one who had _not_ been hospitalized. It just wasn't fair.

"Hey, Tony! How's it going?"

Tony drew himself out of his bout of self-pity and saw Tim standing in the doorway, looking…well, _awkward_. He found himself automatically evaluating Tim's state of mind by how he was standing. He looked uncertain, as though he were afraid of intruding. That was normal. He also looked tired. It was the end of a work day, but it was more than that. Tony wasn't sure what it was. His eyes were still shadowed, but not as much as they had been. As Tony examined him, Tim's face scrunched up in concern.

"Are your…fingers…okay?"

Tony looked at Tim in confusion. "What? What are you talking about?"

"You seemed to be a little out of it. I thought maybe…" Tim trailed off and stopped.

Tony laughed in embarrassment. "No heavy duty painkillers at the moment, McGee. Although I may starve to death before they let me out."

Tim got a sly look on his face. "What would you do for a square meal, Tony?"

"Well, I think that I'd probably…" he stopped. "What's in the bag, Probie?"

Tim's eyes got wide. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"McGee…you wouldn't leave me to eke out a poor pitiful existence on hospital food would you?" Tony made a "poor me" face and stuck out his bottom lip.

Tim just stood, holding a bag that Tony was now positive contained real food, his smile getting more and more evil.

"Come on, McGee! I'm dying here!"

Tim raised an eyebrow. "I highly doubt it. Been there. Done that. You don't qualify."

Tony didn't know what to say to that. Tim's smile became slightly fixed in the awkward pause, but it was still genuine.

"My therapist told me I needed to have more fun, Tony," Tim added, his expression still one of evil enjoyment.

Tony swallowed the worry that had surged up at the reminder of Tim's recent past. How could Tim recover if everyone treated him like an invalid?

"Not at my expense, I'm sure!"

"She didn't specify." Then, Tim looked out of the room and down the hall. He waved with his free hand and in moments, he'd been forced all the way into the room by Abby and Ziva. Abby ran to the bed and hugged Tony tightly as if she hadn't seen him in ages…rather than just that morning.

"Tony! You're looking great!" she said.

"Abby, you just saw me a few hours ago," Tony said from beneath her.

"Yes, but that was then," she answered.

"Well, if Probie doesn't share whatever it is that he has, I'll soon be wasting away into nothing."

Tim grinned.

"I told him that he had to be sure to wait for us," Ziva said, grabbing the bag from Tim's hand. "If he did not, you would surely eat everything before Abby and I arrived."

Tony looked over at Tim who grinned evilly again.

"You could have mentioned that part, McGee."

"Where's the fun in that, Tony?" Tim asked. He wasn't being completely "normal" but it was nice to see him joking around a bit again.

Tony rolled his eyes, but promptly focused on Ziva as she began to bring out various Chinese food containers. They had fun fighting over the rice and the spring rolls. Ziva poked fun at Tony's inability to eat effectively with chopsticks, provoking a small food fight. They compared their battle wounds: Tim's grazed temple vs. Ziva's concussion vs. Tony's shoulder. Tim declared his the best because it was most visible. Abby hugged each and every one of them more than once. In spite of the fun and the jokes, they all noticed how tired Tim seemed to be. However, he never suggested leaving. In fact, he seemed to be enjoying himself. He was just tired. After an hour or so, Tony's doctor came in and kicked them all out. She gave Tony his medication and the other three decided to leave before Tony's fingers started _finging_ again.

When they reached the parking lot, the three separated and headed to their cars. Tim 

reached his and sighed. He leaned against the door before searching for his keys. This day had been way too long.

"Is something the matter, McGee?"

Tim closed his eyes. "Not particularly, Ziva. I'm just tired."

"Why?"

Tim laughed a little. "Various and sundry issues."

"Like what?"

"It's just been a long day."

"You were fine this morning. We did not do much work at NCIS. What has made you tired?"

Tim didn't answer. He was only meeting Ziva's eyes in the reflection in his window. She was making no effort to move away.

"It's fighting, Ziva. That makes me tired," he admitted.

"Fighting what?"

"The crap in my head. Some days, it's really hard to keep myself from listening to it all…because _I_ know it's not true, but my head doesn't care."

"McGee, could I ask you a question?"

"Sure."

"Would you turn around first?"

Tim smiled and turned around. Ziva reached up and put her hand on his cheek. He stiffened for a moment in surprise, but then brought his own hand up and covered hers.

"Is this what you want?"

"What do you mean?"

"This life you have now. It is…chaotic…different…and yet, you still have the same things you did before. You could give them up, get a different job, choose a different life. Do you want this?"

For a long time, the two of them stood, staring at each other. Finally, Tim smiled at her, not without a tinge of sadness.

"All I've been going through would have been pretty worthless otherwise."

"That is not an answer, McGee."

"I wouldn't fight for something I didn't want, Ziva. I want this life. That's why I'm trying so hard."

"You are not alone in the fight, McGee."

"I know. That's the only reason I haven't lost yet." He curled his fingers around hers and pulled her hand down. It was much smaller than his.

"Is there anything I can do?"

Tim looked up. "You're doing it already."

"What is that?"

"You're here. You're concerned…and most importantly, you're not telling me that I'm being stupid."

"You are not."

"It's nice to hear it sometimes."

"Do you need company tonight, McGee?"

"Uh…"

Ziva grinned. "I was not being suggestive, McGee…unless that is what _you_ had in mind."

Tim blushed and ducked his head. "No. Not at all."

Ziva laughed, but then looked him in the eyes and repeated, "Do you need company?"

Tim hesitated and then said, "Could we…just talk for awhile…watch a movie…something untaxing?"

"Sure, McGee…but at my apartment. If we go to your place, you will feel awkward because the only place to sit will be on your bed."

Tim blushed again but didn't deny her statement.

"I will see you there."

"Okay."

"Do not stand me up, McGee," Ziva said as she walked away.

"I won't."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"You look…ready to drop," Ziva commented when she opened the door. "Are you sure you would not like to just go to sleep?"

Tim shook his head. "I just need some time to…unwind first."

"Well, come in and unwind," Ziva offered, gesturing for Tim to come inside.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Two hours later, Ziva was sitting on her couch, watching Tim sleep. They had talked for a while and then started watching television…or at least, Ziva had watched television. As soon as the lights went down, he was out. She debated whether to wake him and let him go home or just let him sleep on her couch. It was almost heartbreaking to see him sleep. At first, she couldn't decide why. Then, she realized…Tim's eyes were closed; even when he wasn't actively afraid or nervous, Tim's eyes showed an anxiety that he had yet to purge from them. It was getting better. She knew that and she told herself that over and over again to keep herself from worrying, but sleep smoothed out all the lines on Tim's face and brought the old Tim back…if only for awhile, the Tim who hadn't been attacked, manipulated and suicidal. The irony was that she had never thought she'd miss it so much.

Tim stirred and his head slid down the arm of the couch. Ziva smiled and leaned over, carefully shifting his body so that he wouldn't get a crick in his neck. Then, she sighed and sat back, watching him.

"I wish you could let it all go, McGee," she said, softly. After a while, she got up and grabbed a spare blanket. She draped over Tim and watched in quiet amusement as he snuggled down underneath it, never waking up.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_"You can't just leave him in there!" Tim shouted at everyone._

_"He's dead, Tim," Sam said, sadly. "There's nothing you can do."_

_"No! There has to be something! We can bring him back!" Tim said and tried to push past the restraining hands, tried to get to the bathtub, overflowing now, blood pouring onto the white floor, red staining white._

_"Let him go, McGee," Ziva said, tears running down her cheeks._

_"I can't! I have to save him!"_

_"No, Tim, you can't save him. He's gone. Let him go," Abby begged._

_Gibbs and Ducky were holding him back. They wouldn't let him get to the tub. They wouldn't let him pull the body out. Suddenly, Tim broke free. He reached for the hand, but the body sat up in the tub, the blood draining away slowly revealing Tim himself._

_"Let me go, Tim," the body said. There were no eyes…only deep black holes._

_"I have to save you," Tim whispered, terrified but unable to let go._

_"You don't want to save me."_

_"I have to."_

_"No, you don't. I'm dead. Let me stay that way."_

_"Please," Tim begged._

_"Let me go…"Then, his body turned into Smith; then, Leavitt, but it was still his voice. "Let me go…"_

_Tim began to cry, but their hands seemed fused together. He couldn't let go. _

_"Let go."_

_"I can't!"_

_"You can."_

_"No!"_

_"Just open your fingers."_

_"It's…"_

_"You can do it. Let me go."_

_Tim strove to open his hand, to unclench his fist…and then, his hand was open; the body was gone; everyone was gone. Tim was standing alone in the dark. A single light shone from his palm. He looked down at it…it was a turtle._

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Friday morning…_

Tim opened his eyes. This wasn't his apartment. _Where am I? What's going on?_

"Oh, good. You are awake. I was afraid I'd have to wake you myself, McGee," Ziva said from somewhere out of his view.

Tim's eyes widened in surprise. He had fallen asleep at Ziva's apartment! And even more embarrassing…he had drooled on Ziva's couch. He supposed that it was better than drooling on Ziva herself, but still…

"What time is it?" he asked, sitting up, hurriedly wiping his mouth.

"Six. I was hoping that you would wake up soon enough to have time to get ready at your apartment…since you did not see fit to bring anything with you. You should really plan your sleepovers better, McGee."

Tim blushed and then looked at his hand. If he closed his eyes, he could still see that silly turtle sitting in his hand. Why had he dreamed of that? Why had _that_ brought him so close to happiness?

"McGee?"

Tim looked up from his hand.

"Are you all right?"

Tim thought about it. "I slept through the night for the first time in…I don't know how long. That's got to be better than I've had."

Ziva sat next to him and carefully touched the skin around his stitches. "I am glad you were there…and I am glad you chose to stay."

Tim touched the stitches gingerly. "I almost think I am, too."

Ziva smiled. "You had better go. Otherwise, we will be thought to be flaunting rule twelve."

Tim stood quickly and left. Ziva stared at the door after he was gone for a long time. There had been something different about Tim this morning. How could he have changed so much just from one night?

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Tim's last day of probation turned out to be a slow one: no new cases, nothing but tying up some loose ends. Jenny watched him from the balcony and smiled when she saw him pick up the turtle and stare at it in the palm of his hand for a few seconds before returning it to its place. There was a moment, about halfway through the day, when Tim had been walking through the bullpen on his way back to his desk and he had suddenly stopped. He had taken two shuddering breaths before continuing on his way. When he had seated himself, he had picked up the turtle again and held it tightly in his fist for a few seconds before continuing with his work. Jenny wondered what had happened there, but unless he offered the information, she knew she wouldn't ask. Then, other tasks had called for her attention and she had gone about her day, actually looking forward to the meeting that night.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Boss?"

It was the end of the day. Ziva had already left, and Gibbs knew that Tim was on his way to his therapy session with Dr. Lyons. He looked up and saw that Tim already had his coat on. This wasn't to be a long conversation then.

"Yes, McGee?"

"I've been thinking."

"Am I supposed to be surprised by that?" Gibbs asked, raising his eyebrows.

Tim smiled a little. "No, I guess not, but I was thinking about what Smith did."

"Again, should I be surprised?"

Tim shrugged. "Do you think he ever regretted it?"

"What?" Gibbs asked, now confused.

"He told me…in the bathroom…before…before he tried to kill me. He told me that he wanted the hit man to fail, that he felt it was his duty to kill his wife, just like he felt it was his duty to kill me. Do you think that he regretted trying to kill me?"

"Why are you asking?"

"Because I want to know."

"But why, McGee?"

"He tried to destroy me, Boss. He didn't just try to kill me and leave it at that. He left nothing to chance. If he killed me, fine, but he also set things up so that he could continue to torture me after he died, first with Leavitt and then with all those…_things_ he left in my 

apartment. He really, really hated me. I just wonder if there was any regret."

Gibbs looked at Tim, wondering if he should be honest or if he should lie. He dismissed the lie. Lying had not done Tim any good and lying _to_ him wouldn't help matters either.

"No, McGee. I don't think he did. I think he was so rooted in his anger and his sense of betrayal that he didn't have room for any other emotion."

"He said that he had made horror and mortal terror his friends and that they were my enemies. I think he was right. I think that's the difference."

"What do you mean?"

"I never used horror and mortal terror. I could have. It wouldn't have been hard to make that jump from depression to rage. I was hovering over the line often enough as it was. He made that jump…and he made it a long time before he met me. That's why we're different. That's why I'm not him."

Gibbs couldn't believe what he was seeing. Tim was standing in front of his desk, talking about what made him different from Smith…and he was calm. Yes, he was shaking a little, and he'd no doubt have to take some time to collect himself once he was out of Gibbs' sight, but he was still standing right there…he would not have thought it possible.

"You're right, McGee. You're a lot stronger than Smith ever was."

Tim nodded and left the bullpen.

"Well?" Jenny asked, but with none of the worry that had colored Monday's meeting.

"I have no qualms," Ducky said. "We will still have to take it slowly, but Timothy is rising to meet the challenge."

"Jethro?"

"He's going to be all right," Gibbs said and he knew his relief had come out in his voice when Jenny stared at him. "As bad as it could have been, I think the encounter with Dalton was about the best thing that could have happened to him."

Jenny nodded. It was such a relief to be able to talk about Tim in this way as opposed to the qualifying statements they had been making up to this point.

"Wonderful. I will tell him on Monday." She shook her head. This had lasted so much longer than any of them had thought it would. "I hope we can start to put it behind us…and I really hope that McGee can do the same."

"I think he can," Gibbs said. "He's already starting to do it."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

"Tim, I _do_ think you are doing better. What happened?" Phoebe asked at the end of the session.

Tim hitched his shoulders. "I'm not sure exactly. Part of it was what happened on Wednesday. I was terrified. I was so scared that I threw up after it was over, but…I didn't mess it up."

"You didn't think you could do that, did you."

Tim shook his head. "No. I'd nearly decided that I'd never be able to…and with that dream…"

"The blood in the bathtub?"

"Yeah. I'm no expert on deciding what dreams mean, but I sure couldn't let go…and then, last night…"

"What?" Phoebe asked when Tim stopped.

"The dream was different. It ended differently. I let go, and everyone disappeared…and I was alone in the dark. I don't think that this magically means I'm cured." Tim gave a rare happy smile. "But…I've been thinking that…if my subconscious can let go, I should be able to do it while I'm awake."

Phoebe chuckled. "You've had everyone telling you the same thing for the last two months and it takes a dream of a bloody talking corpse to finally get you to accept it?"

Tim flushed.

"I'm just teasing, Tim. I'm glad that you are finally understanding it, no matter what it took."

"I don't think I could have…gotten even this far without everyone telling me," Tim admitted.

"That's nothing to be ashamed of, Tim. You've gone through a lot. I defy anyone to come out of such an attack unscathed."

"Well, _I_ didn't."

"No, you didn't." Phoebe looked at her watch. She couldn't do that with some of her patients. They took it as a dismissal. Tim didn't. "Marie will probably be waiting. Thank you for switching times with her."

"No problem."

"I think we should continue meeting for at least the next month or two. We can hammer out the details next week."

Tim nodded and stood. "I think I need it."

"And _that_ is something admirable, Tim."

"What is?"

"Knowing you need help…and asking for it." She held out her hand. Tim shook it firmly and she followed him to the door.

Marie was sitting in the waiting room. She gave Tim a furtive smile, but skirted around him. Just before she stepped into the office, Tim turned around.

"Marie?"

She turned back as well. "What?"

"It does start to go away."

Her smile widened. "Thanks."

Tim smiled back and left.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_"McGregor, do you want to die?" Tibbs shouted. McGregor's hand slipped out of Tibbs grip a little more. It was almost too late._

_Finally, he looked up at Tibbs, tears running down his cheeks. He seemed unable to speak._

_"Answer me! Do you want to die?"_

_"NO!" McGregor screamed. He lifted his other arm and grabbed Tibbs' outstretched hand. In moments, the two of them were laying prostrate on the ground, gasping for air. All the while the water roared and heaved over the edge into the river below. McGregor began to sob, lying weakly on the bridge, even after Tibbs had pulled himself to his knees. He crawled over to McGregor._

_"Get up, McGregor."_

_"It's all my fault, Tibbs. It's all my fault. I should have told you. I should have stopped them sooner. It's all my fault," McGregor wept. He seemed to have lost all power of independent movement._

_"It's not your fault."_

_"They were after me. They were punishing me. It wasn't Tommy. It wasn't Lisa. It wasn't Amy. It was me. How can I make up for that? And I killed him, Tibbs! I killed him! It wasn't what I wanted. I know there's nothing else, but there's so much blood on my hands."_

_"They are the guilty ones, McGregor. You are the victim. Tommy, Lisa and Amy are the victims. You are not at fault."_

_"If I had only…"_

_"You can't go back now, McGregor. You can't go back to the falls. You can't go back to the past. You can either end your life here, or you can go on and accept what you have left…and there's a lot left."_

_"I don't know if I can."_

_"I do."_

_"Tibbs…"_

_Tibbs reached out and pulled McGregor to his feet. McGregor stood listlessly, looking back at the water, wishing for the power to end it all._

_"That's not your future, McGregor."_

_"There's no future."_

_"Yes, there is."_

_"What? What do I have? I gave up my job. I lost my friends. I lost everything, just for revenge."_

_"You haven't lost your job. Your friends will make it." Tibbs put his arm around McGregor's shoulders. "Come on, McGregor. There's a lot left of life."_

_McGregor surrendered to Tibbs' urging. When they left the bridge, he looked back again._

_"Let it go, McGregor."_

_McGregor turned his back on the falls and let Tibbs lead him away._

Tim sat back and looked at what he'd typed. It was a little rough, but he could work on that more later. McGregor had left the falls. That was the important thing. He stood up, stretching, thinking about what else he had left to do in _Rock Hollow_ before it would be over. He grabbed a pop from the fridge and was heading back to his typewriter when there was a sudden pounding on the door. He jumped and dropped the can, causing it to explode and send Diet Coke all over the floor.

"Great," he muttered and headed to the door. "Tony, if this is you, I'm going to kill you, injured shoulder or not." He pulled open the door and was knocked back a few steps by Abby grabbing him and hugging him tightly. "Abby! What's wrong?" He tried to pull back, but she wouldn't let him go.

"You didn't call me!" she said.

"What?"

"You said that you were going to call me and…and you _didn't_!"

Tim blinked. "Oh, Abby. I'm sorry. I had to talk to Dr. Lyons tonight and then I started writing. I just…it completely slipped my mind."

Abby pulled away from him and looked annoyed…and a little anxious.

"Abby, I really am sorry."

"Tim…I was afraid that…"

Tim grabbed her shoulders and shook her just a little. "You can't assume that I'm going to fall apart every day. Haven't I done it enough already?"

"Tim…"

"Abby, I'm glad that you cared enough to come all the way over here, but…I'm okay."

"You keep saying that, Tim, but you said it before and it wasn't true!"

"What do you mean?"

"Before…we talked on the phone and you didn't say anything about being in trouble. Then, the next thing _I_ know, Gibbs is calling me telling me that you're on your way to commit suicide somewhere and the only clue is whether or not I can remember stuff about your book!" She threw her arms around him again. This time, Tim hugged her back.

"Abby…I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"What if that happens again, Tim? I don't think I could do it again."

"It won't happen again."

"How do you know? You wouldn't tell me before."

"Abby, I wasn't lying before. Talking to you made me happy. It was what came after that tore me apart."

"But…"

"I can't promise all good days. Some days will probably be bad, but…Abby, I won't try and do it on my own if I don't think I can."

Abby hugged him more tightly. Then, just as suddenly, she let him go. "What happened to your floor?"

Tim looked over at the spilled pop. He sighed. "You startled me. I dropped the can and it exploded."

"I'm sorry," Abby said. "Do you want me to clean it up?"

Tim shook his head. "No, I'll do it. Just don't step in it." Tim grabbed a towel and began to mop up the mess. When he looked up he saw Abby hovering over his typewriter.

"Can I read what you wrote?" she asked.

"Go ahead. There's not much there at the moment. Just don't tell anyone."

"I wouldn't do that!"

Tim just raised his eyebrows and went on mopping. He got the pop cleaned up and scrubbed at the floor with a wet sponge to get ride of any sticky spots. He stood up and rinsed out the sponge in the sink. He was about to turn around to make another pass at it when he felt Abby's arms around his waist. She rested her head on his.

"What is it, Abby?"

"McGregor left!"

"Yeah. I don't think my publisher would let me kill off a main character. McGregor's more popular than I had thought he'd be."

"Tim, don't leave again."

"I haven't gone anywhere, Abby…except for a brief visit to Luray, Virginia," Tim said, trying to joke.

"No, don't leave us standing on the sidelines again."

Tim dropped the sponge into the sink and turned around. He hugged Abby tightly. "I won't. I promise."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_Monday morning…_

Tim sat upright in bed, his heart pounding. He looked around…for something. He wasn't sure what it was. He took a deep breath and looked at his clock. To his relief, it was nearly six. He knew he wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. Instead, he got up and went into the bathroom. He looked around at the various parts and then turned on the water. He couldn't suppress an instinctive shiver as the sound filled the room, but he refused to let himself get bogged down by it. He showered and got ready for the day. Before he left the bathroom, he looked at himself in the mirror.

"This is it," he said to himself. "This is who you are. Are you okay with that?" He looked at the lines on his face, the shadow in his eyes. He thought back to Abby's visit on Friday and he smiled. He caught a glimpse of himself. The lines faded and the shadow lifted, just a bit. "Not yet…but I will be."

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

When Tim got to the bullpen, he was surprised to see Cynthia sitting at his desk.

"Cynthia! What brings you down here? Is Gibbs in charge again?"

Cynthia grimaced. "Please, don't even _suggest_ that. Director Shephard would like to see you."

"I feel like I've been in her office more than I've been down here."

"Well, it's a nicer office than you have," Cynthia noted.

"True. Did she say what for?"

"No." Cynthia turned and headed toward the stairs. Tim sighed and then dropped his bag by his desk. He glanced at the turtle, smiled and followed her.

"Do you _know_ what it's for?"

Cynthia grinned. "Yes."

"What?"

"Today is…actually, I probably shouldn't tell you."

"Cynthia, please?"

"Have you hit the punching bag for me yet?"

"Uh…no. I haven't been back down there."

"Well, then, you'll just have to wait and find out."

They walked to the outer office in silence. When they reached Cynthia's desk, she sat down and gestured for him to continue on.

Tim had just reached out for the doorknob when Cynthia looked up from her computer and said, "It might just be about the end of your probation."

Tim turned around, startled, and then swallowed.

"It's not a bad thing, Agent McGee."

Tim nodded and walked into the office.

"Agent McGee, good, come in. Have a seat," Jenny said. She was sitting at her desk with a pile of reports sitting before her.

"Yes, ma'am."

"You have reached the end of your probationary period. I have been having regular meetings with Special Agent Gibbs and Dr. Mallard regarding your progress and your performance. We had our last meeting on Friday and I have come to my decision."

Tim tensed. His performance? During the two months of his probation, he'd managed to nearly kill himself, break down innumerable times, drag the entire team out of work for days at a time…would the work he had actually managed to do be enough to ameliorate that woeful showing?

Perhaps Jenny could tell what he was thinking. She smiled kindly. "I have been thoroughly impressed by your determination and your strength, Agent McGee. There is much that you had to fight against, and in spite of that, you managed to perform at near standards. You are undeniably an asset to NCIS, and I am officially restoring you to full duty, with the single caveat that you not try to do more than you are able. We will work with you to ease you back, but you should not attempt to exceed your own tolerance. Understood?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Good." She stood and walked around the desk. "Are you doing all right?"

"Much better. Thank you." Tim was about to leave, but he stopped and turned back.

"What is it, Tim?" she asked.

"Why a turtle?"

She grinned. "Why do you think?"

"I have no idea. I hope it's not the association with being old and wrinkled and slow."

Jenny laughed. "No."

"Then, why?"

"I like turtles."

"That's it?"

"Well, I could say that it's because they're patient and do things in their time and that it's a reminder for you to go at your own pace, but really it's because I liked the turtle."

Tim smiled.

"And that's another reason why. You smile when you see it."

"Thank you, Jenny. I don't know how you knew what I needed, but you were right."

"That's because I'm the director. I'm always right." Her smile was ironic this time. "Go on, Tim. You have work to do."

Tim straightened slightly. "Thank you…for everything." He walked to the door and was gone.

Jenny sat at her desk and smiled. Slowly, she reached out and touched the little clover and then went back to her many reports.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

Gibbs was on the phone when Tim came back down to his desk, but Tony, his arm still in a sling, and Ziva were both waiting for him.

"Well? What did she say, Probie?"

Tim shrugged.

"What, McGee?" Ziva asked.

"She said that you can't call me Probie anymore, Tony."

Tony let out a whoop and gave Tim a one-armed hug. Ziva hugged him from the other side.

"All right, let's go. There was a break-in at the weapons depot," Gibbs said, hanging up the phone.

Tony looked annoyed at not being able to go out on field duty yet, but he still smiled and mimed a high-five in Tim's direction as he headed to the elevator.

"You ready, McGee?" Gibbs asked.

Tim thought about it. "Yeah, Boss. I think I am."

The elevator doors closed.


	50. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

_Four months later…_

It was quiet. No jazz. No water. Nothing. And yet the silence wasn't oppressive. It was a rare moment in which the silence was what was needed. Tim sat at his desk, ostensibly typing. _Rock Hollow_ was done. McGregor and Tibbs had saved the day. Tommy, Lisa and Abby had survived and romance seemed in the air…although between whom was left for the next volume. All that was left was the title page…and one more. He'd been staring blankly at the piece of paper in his typewriter for the last hour. It shouldn't be hard to do this. He'd had no trouble with _Deep Six_…and yet, it meant more this time. He decided to type the easy page first. Maybe then, the harder page would be less difficult.

_Rock Hollow  
__The Continuing Adventures of L. J. Tibbs  
__Volume II_

_By  
__Thom E. Gemcity_

That was the easy part. Tim pulled out the title page and placed it face down on the desk. Then, he took another piece of paper and rolled it in. He stared at the blank page. The words were all there. He just couldn't figure out what the right ones were. He ran his fingers lightly over the keys, not pressing them down enough to actually type anything…just thinking. Then, he smiled and began to type once more.

_Dedicated to  
__All those who wouldn't let me fall  
__and  
__everyone who helped me up again_

Tim stared at the page, satsified. Carefully, very carefully, he pulled out the page and lay it reverently on the top of the sheaf of paper lying beside his typewriter. Then, equally carefully, he put the title page on top. He looked at his watch and jumped out of his seat. As he ran into his bedroom to change, his phone started to ring. He grabbed it and started speaking before the caller could do so.

"I know! I'll be there!"

"You'd better be, Tim! This was _your_ idea!" Abby lectured.

"I'll be there! I'm on my way out!"

Tim hung up and ran around his apartment searching for his keys. This dinner _had_ been his idea. He wanted to have fun. He stopped and savored the sentence in his head. _I want to have fun._ He smiled to himself. Then, he noticed that all his running back and forth had blown the title page onto the floor. He bent down and picked it up, but before he replaced it, he reread the dedication. That was the real reason he was having this dinner. It was a way of saying _thank you_. He put the title page back on top and ran out the door.

x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x.x

_When I despair, I remember that all through history the way of truth and love has always won.  
There have been tyrants and murderers and for a time they seem invincible, but in the end, they always fall... think of it, always._

_Mahatma Gandhi_

FINIS!


End file.
